


I Loved You a Lifetime Ago

by LSPrincess



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaking, Drinking, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Purple Prose, Scars, Singing, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-10-26 11:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20741543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSPrincess/pseuds/LSPrincess
Summary: “Well,” [Oswald] began, reaching up and touching his swollen eye in the same manner that Ed had, “when we’re grown up and have enough money, then we’ll get married?”“Yeah, okay,” Ed said with a grin, one that actually befitted his face. “Then we can get married. I promise.”-Set in an alternate universe where Ed and Oswald first met when they were children. Promises were made, faces were forgotten, but as everyone knows, nothing stays dead in Gotham — not even memories.[This is more of a collection of canon scene rewrites taking place in this AU — There are time skips and original scenes. Rating is for later chapters]





	1. The Boy With the Chocolate Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings for this chapter!! Includes slurs, bullying, very vague implications of rape, mentions of drug addiction, alcoholism, vomiting, and domestic violence. None of the extreme stuff happens to Ed or Oswald though and is only experienced in passing!******

Bullying was something Oswald was not and never had been unfamiliar with. It was a topic frequently discussed in the presentations shown in school that he hardly paid attention to — for what was the point in listening to something that encouraged reporting bullying if the staff never did anything about it when it _ was _ reported? Oswald always thought it was mandatory to show those ten-minute videos in schools (he often wondered if they were going to be graded on how attentively they watched it, which, thankfully, was never the case) for no authority in their right mind would _ choose _ to sit through those horribly embarrassing PSA’s. The acting in them was pitiful at best, and the content was never anywhere _ near _ accurate — Oswald had never been bullied for his shoes or the price of the school supplies he brought, though those dreadful videos always seemed to focus specifically on petty subjects like that. 

The only way he could keep himself entertained in those brief but excruciating timespans was to imagine what he would do differently were he to produce such videos. For one, he’d make sure the children featured could at least school their expressions into something remotely resembling the anguish he often felt when being bullied. But more importantly, he felt, he’d make sure the scripts stayed true to more realistic examples of bullying, perhaps even ones inspired by Oswald’s own experiences (but decidedly nothing too personal). He’d wipe those bratty girls and intimidating jocks from the picture altogether, for they rarely featured in his life. He’d sternly refuse to include any topics in regards to the way one dressed or prepared for class, because (though he supposed it was possible) that wasn’t what he suffered for.

What he was always on the receiving end of was non-lethal stoning after school, people burning and ripping holes in his backpack, being pushed into walls and taunted by those overly-patriotic. He was pinched and hit and tripped and called a commie, Nazi trash, faggot, beak-face, penguin, deformed — any slur they could produce in any place not crowded with staff.

He wanted to show people what the extent of bullying could be so they wouldn’t brush it off as childhood drama — he wanted to shove those depictions into teachers’ faces, make them choke on the truth, make them watch it over and over again until they understood. He wanted to show them the bruises on his arms and sides and back, the spots on his head where clumps of hair had ripped from his scalp, the cuts and scrapes on his knees from being shoved to the ground.

He’d put that all in his version of the video, and damned be how graphic he would make it, how inappropriate it just might be for audiences his age — if they lived in a city like Gotham, they’d live the life of a Gothamite. They’d see what Oswald would see on his walks to and from school — the alcoholics and drug addicts in the alleys, vomiting and crying but still handing over what little money they had. They’d see the bar fights and domestic violence he glimpsed through windows, the screams of helpless women he heard from down the street, the half-naked ladies parading their bodies down the sidewalks (it seemed only Oswald noticed their exhausted gait, their disheveled hair and the slight discoloration on their cheeks or wrists). They’d know the fear he felt when he’d sit at home and hear gunshots outside his window, how desperate he was for some meagre ounce of consolation, but with his mother passed out in the reclining chair, he’d just turn the volume up on the television and stifle his sobs in the nearest throw pillow.

He’d make them understand that — he was sure he would. He’d make them see that now, he hardly spared a second glance to the addicts in the alleys or the fights through the windows, that he waved to the half-naked women parading their bodies down the sidewalks, that he needn’t turn up the volume on the television when those gunshots rang out because the television wasn’t on at all — he’d make them see that he sat by the window every night, waiting patiently for yelps or screams or those loud _ bangs _ from a firearm and he’d watch so intently, so ready to see if the gunfights in those old Westerns were anything like the real thing. Inevitably, they never were. But Oswald thought he could make it better if he produced his own.

But only seven years of age, he understood all too well that the world would never let _ a child _ produce a bullying PSA or an old Western show, for the world didn’t understand that a child saw such a thing through clear eyes.

Oswald had always hated the term “child” — such an innocent connotation it had when he himself as a child had told those _ prostitutes _ (as he’d learned their title was) to not seem so vulnerable lest they desire to wind up like those screaming women down the street. He’d been slapped for such a comment more than once, but he himself as a child merely kept walking, what remnants of his lunch money he had tucked into one of those ladies’ unnaturally tall heels for their troubles.

He did that with more than one type of person, he found as the months progressed. When he’d get pinned against walls or doors and searched for money, he’d slip his hand into his attackers’ pockets and withdraw their small plastic wallets or baggies of loose change — they never noticed. With that money, he’d tip the people he found on his way home from school: handfuls of change for the addicts in the alley, a few singles for the ladies on the sidewalks, and a five or a ten for the solemn men tucked away in street corners, those men who were busted and bleeding and had cold, hard eyes — Oswald saw much of himself reflected in their impassive expressions.

He never asked for anything in return — he rarely said a word to most of them — but he felt what he was doing was beneficial, for both those he rewarded and himself. He was building a secret empire, gaining respect from those much taller and scarier than the _ children _ who hurt him, and when those telltale gunshots would ring out in the dead of night, he found his face flickering into a smile, for he felt quite safe.

The first time that he’d tried to use his growing support as a defense against his assailants, though, was when he learned that words of strength from one who was painted to be weak was a grievance that could not be pardoned, and after the dismissal bell he sat in the schoolyard, knees scuffed, shirt torn, eye black and nose bleeding. Such a cruel beating he’d suffered, such an irrational response, and one unlike any other. Claiming that he had tenacious junkies, queenly prostitutes, and strong survivors at his back was, in retrospect, a very poor decision. How he would explain this to his mother, he hadn’t the faintest idea.

But in all his days of sitting alone and hurt in the schoolyard, never had someone approached him, for everyone knew who he was (or rather _ what _he was — shark bait, prey for those willing to hurt him). This fateful day, however (which had previously been looking exceptionally glum), a small voice reached Oswald’s ringing ears.

“Are you okay?”

If Oswald were to pick one aspect of his classes that he so utterly loathed, he might just pick those stupid questions that students asked. He _ despised _ stupid questions, and the askers all the more, but when he jerked his head up to berate whoever this strange speaker was for their undoubtedly stupid question, he nearly choked for how quickly his voice caught in his throat.

It was a boy, surprisingly, his tone of voice and low volume misleading. He was a hair taller than most boys Oswald had seen, and certainly far taller than himself. Though, despite the advantage of height, he looked several years younger than Oswald in the face. Oswald was still tempted to kick him away until he noticed his eyes — cold, glassy, hollow things, darker than the blackest night, but so very entrancing. Oswald sat up straighter.

“There’s blood in my throat,” he said at last, swallowing uncomfortably.

“That’s because you keep holding your head back,” the stranger replied, stalking forward carelessly and grabbing the sides of Oswald’s face with small, strong hands, leaning his head forward so that Oswald’s bleeding nose gushed into his awaiting palms. “There.”

“No! Now there’s blood on my hands!” Oswald cried, glaring at the other boy. He was certainly ruining what little pleasure his company had to offer.

“But it’s better for you. It can get stuck and turn into a scab if you don’t let it come out,” he said with a grin, guilty hands tugging nervously at his sweater vest.

Oswald whined but kept his hands cupped under his face, the sticky warmth of the blood unpleasant but not too distracting, and he kept his attention on the boy, who was moving closer still until he knelt on the ground in front of him.

“What’s wrong with your eye?” he asked, tilting his head to the side curiously.

“It’s bruised. I got punched.”

“Why?”

Oswald flicked the blood that was on his hands onto the boy’s face out of irritation, revelling in the way he jumped and gasped but more so surprised by how quickly he recovered, not bothering to wipe any of it away before returning his full attention to Oswald’s face.

“That was rude.”

“You were being rude,” Oswald returned with a glare but moved his arms so that the boy could get closer.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be. I’ve never seen somebody with a bruised eye before. Do you need ice?”

“I can get some when I go home,” Oswald said, hoping it was a sufficient dismissal of the boy’s implied offer. “I need to go soon. Thank you for helping my nose.”

“I didn’t help your nose,” the stranger interrupted, stepping in front of Oswald to prevent him from leaving. “But I can. Here.”

Before Oswald could stop him, he leaned in and ripped a piece of Oswald’s already torn shirt off, inspecting it for reasons Oswald wasn’t quite clear on.

“Hey!” he shrieked, smacking the boy’s arm. “Why did you do that? My mommy’s gonna be—”

“It’s okay,” the boy assured him, leaning forward and dabbing at the smeared blood on Oswald’s face. “You can wear my sweater on top of it. She won’t see it. I can give you another shirt tomorrow.”

Oswald frowned skeptically. “Tomorrow? I’ve never seen you, how can you give it to me tomorrow?”

He got a smile in return. “I don’t go here. I go to Hilltop Elementary — it’s over the water. My daddy’s here for work and my mommy and I are in a hotel. We’re gonna be here for a few days. So I can give you a shirt tomorrow.”

“Over the water?” Oswald repeated, picking apart the boy’s rambling explanation. “You mean on the mainland? You’re not from Gotham?”

“No, we’re just visiting. My mommy said it’s like a vacation.”

Oswald ignored him. “What’s wrong with your eyes, then?”

The boy frowned and laughed, passing Oswald the scrap of shirt so he could hold it to his nose while he investigated the bruising around his eye. “What?”

“Your eyes. If you’re not from Gotham, what’s wrong with your eyes? They look fake. The only people I know who have eyes like that live here, see the stuff I do. See,” he said, pointing to the eye that wasn’t swollen shut, “mine look fake.”

The stranger leaned forward, examining the subject of Oswald’s gestures before shaking his head in confusion and returning to the task of doctoring Oswald’s bruise.

“I don’t see. They look fine to me. They’re very nice.”

“My eyes?”

“Yeah. Mine are brown. My daddy says they’re shit brown. Not like my mommy’s — you have eyes like my mommy’s. She has pretty eyes.”

Oswald flinched at the use of the swear, though he wasn’t sure why. He’d heard far more, far _ worse _ from the people he passed on the street and he hadn’t batted an eye. Perhaps it had something to do with the boy’s apparent innocence, his gentle and approachable (albeit a little annoying) nature. Whatever it was made Oswald gasp offendedly.

“You shouldn’t say that! You’re just a kid! How old are you?”

The boy frowned. “I’m six. Why can’t I say it? My daddy says it.”

“Your daddy’s a grown-up, he can say it. But he shouldn’t say it when he’s talking about you. I think your eyes are nice.”

“They’re not nice,” the boy bit back as if defending himself, “they’re ugly. They’re not blue. Yours are blue — blue-green. They look like the water. Mine look like shit.”

“I said don’t say that!” Oswald scolded, flicking more blood onto the boy’s big glasses. “They don’t look like shit! They look like chocolate. I like chocolate.” Oswald allowed himself an indulgent smile. “You’re the boy with chocolate eyes.”

“My name’s Ed,” the boy said, answering a question Oswald hadn’t bothered to ask. “Nashton. What’s yours?”

“Oswald Kapelput,” he replied, idly looking at the bloody rag he’d been holding to his nose. “I _ do _ go here.”

“I know,” Ed said, smiling warmly. “I saw you coming out of school. My mommy said I could come to the playground because she can see me from the window,” he said, pointing back to a tall motel building Oswald had never truly noticed before. “I have to stay right here, though.”

“Your mommy lets you go places by yourself?” Oswald asked with a frown, eyeing the scrawny boy thoughtfully. If it weren’t for his eyes, he probably wouldn’t have survived this long in the city.

“I have to do it a lot at home,” Ed said with a shrug, poking gingerly at the tender skin above Oswald’s cheekbone. “Daddy works a lot and Mommy sleeps. I can go to the park by myself.”

“Because she can see you from the window?” Oswald guessed with an inward laugh. The boy was helpless — maybe he truly just had fake eyes.

“No,” Ed said with a firm shake of his head. “The park’s far from our home. She lets me go there because she likes when the house is quiet. It helps her sleep.”

Oswald wondered distantly if his mother preferred when he was out of the house, too. She had always been over-protective, though, and would certainly never let him go anywhere on his own (walking home was an exception, of course, because the streets were public and she’d given him specific routes to take — if he strayed from them to tip those less fortunate, no one had to know).

“My mommy sleeps a lot too,” he said uselessly, talking for the sake of talking instead of trying to make a point. This was the longest conversation he’d ever held with anyone other than his only parent, and it was refreshing to hear some unpredictable input.

“Maybe our mommies would like each other. They can sleep together,” Ed said with a smile, one that Oswald returned with a laugh.

“Yeah, they could.”

From there, they fell into silence, Ed stroking over the purple skin of Oswald’s eye and apologizing profusely whenever Oswald winced. He’d concluded that Oswald should put something cold on it immediately, though it didn’t have to be ice, and by tomorrow it should stop being puffy and in a few days the bruising should go away. He mentioned that if Oswald’s mother had any makeup that he could use it to cover it up, and though Oswald was sure it was good advice, his mind had strayed to what he felt was more important things.

The sun was hot and bright and lower in the sky, and Oswald knew that if he wasn’t home by the time the clock tower chimed five, then his mother would likely have every cop in the city looking for him. Not that they’d look very hard, though — most times his mother tried to talk to people, they ignored her completely or recoiled in response to her accent. Oswald had received the same treatment in his earliest years of school, but after some public exposure and private tutoring from one of his kinder teachers, he’d practically lost the accent altogether. It had made his mother noticeably sad at first, but soon she smiled at it, knowing for once that Oswald was safe from some of the ridicule she endured.

And for once, Oswald wasn’t ridiculed at all by this new stranger, this boy who seemed so concerned for Oswald’s well-being, who was taking the bloodied rag from him and dabbing at his knees now, who kept looking up at him with those big chocolate eyes, so cold and glassy and fake in their sockets but heartwarming even still. And for once, Oswald decided he liked someone. He liked Ed.

It was a strange feeling, that warmth in his chest, and one he had very little idea what to do with. In his experience, if people liked each other, they often wound up together, in a relationship or in _ marriage, _ like his mother had been with his father so long ago. But his father had died, or so he’d been told, and he’d never gotten to see that rumored _ marriage _ firsthand. What was it supposed to be like? What did you do? What did you need? He wanted to find out.

“Can we get married?” he asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence between them. At his words, Ed looked up, staring blankly for a long moment before recoiling slightly.

“No, why would we do that? Boys can’t get _ married.” _

Oswald blinked. He’d never heard that before. “Why not?”

“Well…I dunno,” Ed said with a shrug. “Have you ever heard of boys getting married?”

Oswald opened his mouth to reply with a bitter affirmative but cut himself off, face falling into a thoughtful frown. In hindsight, he supposed he never really _ had _ heard of men getting married. The revelation was puzzling, to say the least.

“Well…no,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “But we could be the first. I like being first.”

Ed seemed to perk up at that idea, lips twitching up faintly into a smile, but they fell once more when a thought hit him. “I don’t know. My daddy says if I wanna get married, I need to get a job. He—He says they need a lot of money.”

That, Oswald found, wasn’t surprising. “How much money do you have? I think I have three dollars,” he added, reaching into his pocket and extracting the plastic baggy of money he’d managed to pickpocket that day. It wasn’t as much as he usually stole, for the rest of his aggressors had been the exceptionally violent ones, and Oswald had prioritized keeping as many of his bones unbroken as he could over the amount of money he might have been able to steal from them.

Ed hummed thoughtfully and started digging around in his pockets, pulling out individual coins until he had a handful. “I have th-three quarters, two dimes, a nickel, and five pennies. So…a dollar and five cents.”

“That’s four dollars with my money!” Oswald chimed in, beaming eagerly. “That’s a lot!”

“I don’t think we could buy a marriage with it, though,” Ed mumbled, pushing the coins around in his palm pensively.

Oswald had predicted that dream-shattering truth, but it didn’t help to alleviate any of the pain as he’d hoped. How was he supposed to marry this boy if he couldn’t do it in the next few days? Ed lived across the water — he’d likely never see him again!

“Well,” he began, reaching up and touching his swollen eye in the same manner that Ed had, “when we’re grown up and have enough money, then we’ll get married?”

Ed met his eyes again — such cold, lifeless things, but in their depths, Oswald thought he could see a flicker of light, of life, of hope and happiness, and for the first time that day they seemed _ real. _ Oswald wondered if his looked the same and decided that he hoped they did — how could having fake eyes be so powerful in comparison to that _ light? _

“Yeah, okay,” Ed said with a grin, one that actually befitted his face. “Then we can get married. I promise.”

The following day, Oswald didn’t get a new shirt, but he had kept Ed’s sweater, having worn it home like he suggested. Though it was peeving, Oswald chose to believe that the other boy had merely forgotten their set meeting, and after waiting for an hour, walked home like he did every day, looking forward to the next evening when he would get another piece of Ed’s clothing in turn for the sweater that was too long on him.

Only, the next day Ed didn’t come either. Or the day after that. He still hadn’t shown up by the time the bruising around Oswald’s eye had faded to a healthier green, one the sweater he still slept with every night complimented rather nicely.

After a month, Oswald wondered if he’d suffered some kind of brain damage and that whole evening had been an unbelievably pleasant dream. It was the less painful speculation, however it didn’t explain the article of clothing that still smelled of unfamiliar detergent and cigarettes, nor did it explain the scrappy rag that had been dyed pink after Oswald’s unsuccessful cleansing. Those two things (one of which stayed in Oswald’s bed with him and the other in his nightstand drawer) were the only physical mementos he had. Beyond that, he had the recollection of light, loving touches on his wounds, of cold, hard eyes that looked so very enticingly like chocolate.

But still, his memories faded — after he’d lost the sweater and his mother had thrown away the rag, he’d forgotten who those eyes belonged to. Going into high school, he’d been too busy drowning in self-loathing and mortal terror to wonder whose touches he dreamed of at night. And only when he was half-deaf and being pushed into the river by the newest detective in town did he miss that boy with chocolate eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/7ca0ac44d6d2067da340471b704dffac/tumblr_o67ln1g6iR1ul3htro1_1280.pnj) drawing by Selene Volturo or **nygmobblepot-fanart** on Tumblr!


	2. Come to Me Like a Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You see, I met you a very long time ago,” Ed continued without prompting, “and through my own recklessness, I’d forgotten it. But seeing you again was like a revelation in and of itself. And I hope,” he ventured, daring to lift a hand and reach for the mobster’s right eye, hoping for nothing more than a gentle caress, “with correct stimulation, I’d be able to remind you of it.”_

From a world that seemed so long ago came the memory of a boy Ed had met in a park — or perhaps a playground, he digressed, a schoolyard, even. It was a memory he had cherished, one he’d held onto throughout the years, but only recently had it come back so violently, so stark in its clarity he’d been practically blinded by it.

It had been provoked nearly four months ago when the MCU had tried to arrest Detectives Bullock and Gordon. Quite a spectacle it had made, and one that was made entirely more distressing by the people crowding around. The detectives were shouting, spitting insults and denials when the entire room had been silenced by the appearance of one man: the allegedly deceased umbrella boy of Fish Mooney and the murder of whom Jim Gordon was being arrested for.

When Ed had turned to look at him, he felt as if he’d blacked out. Such memories that had come crashing onto him, such world-turning, mind-boggling memories of a short, blonde boy with a hooked, broken nose, one enchanting blue-green eye swollen shut and the freckles on his cheeks highlighted by the blood on his lips. There were some distinct differences between that boy of a world so long ago and the man that stood before him, but they were the same, Ed knew — he felt that truth in his chest. And when the man spoke, any doubts he’d had were confirmed.

I am Oswald Cobblepot.

It was as if he’d been speaking directly to Ed, manually forcing into his mind the recollection of a person it seemed he had endeavored (and succeeded) to forget. But, now prompted, it was one he knew would never leave again.

It was with this memory clutched to his heart like a precious token that Ed watched on in awe as the scene before him unfolded — a room of people aghast, intimidated, and a handful considerably confused. What a pity, Ed thought, to not understand they were in the presence of such a wonderful, mysterious, and apparently skillfully elusive man. What a shame it was indeed to not see this robin clad in a veil of night, painted black from head to toe — such power this little bird had as he strolled through the door and possibly none the wiser to it, still. Ed wanted to grovel at his feet in reverence and open this man’s, this bird’s, this little robin’s eyes to a revelation similar to Ed’s own, perhaps remind him of a past he’d possibly forgotten as well, or chiefly, apologize for his own carelessness.

But such desires were overly ambitious, Ed knew — first and foremost, he needed to speak with him. In theory, a simple enough task, but in practice, one that proved to take far longer than Ed was nearly patient enough for.

Four months and several tantalizing appearances of such an enigmatically enticing man later, Ed had secured his chance.

In strode the man in question, dark and brooding and seemingly on a mission, but one that Ed concluded there was no present endpoint for considering Mr. Cobblepot’s dissatisfaction at the absence of Jim Gordon. And from countless weeks of careful observation, Ed knew that without the presence of the object of the mobster’s attention, he likely wouldn’t speak to anyone else.

So long as they didn’t speak to him.

It was almost predatorial, Ed felt, stalking this small, injured man (that limp was new, Ed noted, and most certainly disconcerting) in the way that he was. With the advantage of his height, it was impossible to lose him, even through the bustling clusters of officers and detectives Ed was almost certain were merely feigning occupation. And with the way that little robin, that agitated little Penguin (as Ed had learned he so wished to be called) kept looking at him, glaring through him with those icy eyes, how was it even imaginable that Ed _ could _ lose him? With every fleeting glance, the tie between them was strengthened, pulled tighter, drawing Ed closer. Close enough that when the Penguin finally stopped, Ed circled him and stood adjacent, respectfully silent, patiently waiting.

He hardly seemed like the same broken, bleeding little boy Ed had discovered so long ago — that boy had been pale, yes, but not seeming so sickly as the man before him was now. That boy had been blonde and wearing khakis, suspenders, a white button-down shirt — this man looked as if every part of him had been dyed the deepest black they could, almost magnetic in their monochromatic despondency — whether the man wanted to blend in with the night or stand out in the day, Ed couldn’t be sure.

He was almost entirely unrecognizable save for his face, or more specifically, his eyes. Yes, his nose was a rather distinguishing feature, and his freckles stood out darker than before against their ashen backdrop, but his eyes were damn near haunting in their painful familiarity. With one glance, Ed knew who he was. He was mystified at the idea that _ anyone _ could forget those eyes, no matter how long it might have been.

“Can I help you?” the Penguin growled, speaking at last and turning to Ed, and oh, even his voice was strangely different but still almost deafeningly familiar.

“I don’t know,” Ed said vaguely, fighting the ironic smile that threatened to pull at his lips, “can you?”

A flicker of rage in those cold, hollow eyes was the only reaction he received for a fleeting moment. It was a flash of something real in a world of artificiality, and Ed sincerely knew he would have been terrified had it not been for that breathy laugh that followed. In response, he couldn’t help but return his own certainly more genuine chuckle.

“What do you want?” Cobblepot asked bitterly, a smile so taut and vaguely homicidal gracing his face that Ed distantly wondered why he wasn’t dead yet.

“What I want,” he began, turning his body to the smaller man with a stiff pivot, “the poor have, the rich need, and if you eat it, you’ll die.”

Riddles were an interest he had adopted so long ago that looking back on it now, it seemed as if he’d been born with nothing but enigmatic poetry in his mind. Initially once a meagre hobby, a pastime, even, in recent years it had become Ed’s immediate resolution to questions he found he was too wired or jittery to answer directly. Very likely a despicable tendency, and one that many people often frowned upon in contempt or plain dismay. The man before him was no exception, balking and frowning, face flickering through a multitude of emotions ranging from anger to interest to consideration and finally settling on outright confusion. It was a simple enough riddle, Ed thought, and he found he couldn’t help his disappointment in light of this esteemed man’s all too mainstream response.

“Is this—Are you asking me a riddle?”

Ed’s smile faltered. “Do you like riddles?”

“No,” the Penguin replied promptly, shaking his head with mild disgust.

Disappointment, yes, but in addition, there was a faint flash of something far more conceited, a novel feeling of pride in realization that he might be able to outsmart this elusive spirit, this shadow of a boy he’d once promised to marry. The revelation was enough to coax the return of his smile, though it was far more complacent now.

“So do you give up?”

It earned him that same dry chuckle, though any civility it might have once held was abandoned to reveal what it truly was — a polite sigh of disdain, a kinder, wordless way to say, “Shove it, freak,” like so many of his coworkers had before.

“Friend, lookit,” Cobblepot began, but Ed interrupted him, careless and not intending to heed whatever bitter dismissal or thinly veiled threat he was about to receive from those pale lips — lips he’d once wiped blood from as tenderly as he could.

From the look on the mobster’s face, his unbidden intervention was a very grievous mistake.

“Nothing,” he said, answering his own riddle and ignoring the murder in the smaller man’s eyes and the way his own voice cracked at a mere glimpse of it, “the answer is nothing. The poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it—”

“Who are you?” Cobblepot asked, silencing him with a wave of his hand.

“Edward,” he answered reflexively, for it was literally as easy as giving one’s name. He paused for a moment, though, a strange sense of achievement swelling inside of him in the face of the lie he was about to tell. His last name, it turned out, was a more of a puzzle than he felt he was, one that had a far better story than its mundane possessor. And mundane though he was, he found he was mischievous, still, to give a false name to someone who likely knew him better than anyone else and hardly realized it.

“Nygma,” he said, drawing it out with a knowing smile. “I know who _ you _ are,” he continued, lips stretching wider still.

Indeed, he knew this man, and the other was none the wiser. It was deliciously ironic, and Ed’s heart was beating faster than it had in a long time from the thrill of it all.

He’d expected some span of consideration after such a cryptic statement, and although there was a moment where the little Penguin was quite noticeably gobsmacked, he recovered far too quickly for Ed’s liking, drawing his mouth up in another signature, poisonous grin.

“Then you know that you’re standing too close,” he said, looking pointedly at Ed’s feet. His own eyes followed, heart stuttering when he saw how close they really were — close enough to touch, to hold, to love — but a stronger, more defiant part of him revolted against the idea of taking a respectful step back.

“I disagree,” Ed hummed with a smirk, cutting his eyes back up to meet the Penguin’s livid expression. “I’ve been closer before. Perhaps we could manage it again.” He took a dangerous stride forward, punctuating his statement with the click of his shoe heels. They were so close now, so much closer than had ever seemed possible — he was practically chest-to-chest with the man, and his hands were twitching at his sides with the inherent need to support him.

The Penguin gasped, hands flying up as if he’d be burned by touching Ed, eyes afire with a horrifyingly murderous rage, nostrils flaring, but, Ed noticed with no small amount of satisfaction, his cheeks were glowing the faintest shade of pink.

“You see, I met you a very long time ago,” Ed continued without prompting, “and through my own recklessness, I’d forgotten it. But seeing you again was like a revelation in and of itself. And I hope,” he ventured, daring to lift a hand and reach for the mobster’s right eye, hoping for nothing more than a gentle caress, “with correct stimulation, I’d be able to remind you of it.”

With each shaky breath he took, his hand drew nearer still until it was so close (so close, so close, close enough to touch, to heal, to love) that he knew nothing other than the anticipation of skin on skin contact and the rapid beating of his heart in his throat.

And yet so suddenly that he had nary a time to react, it was a throat being clutched by a strong, thin hand, the icy chill of a blood-letting blade pressed against his jaw. It was a simple primary instinct to grasp at the man’s wrist, tugging at it desperately in a seemingly futile attempt to pull it a safe enough distance from his throat to not risk any real asphyxiation.

“Walk away now and I won’t cut out your tongue,” the smaller man growled, dazzling eyes sparkling with rage and cheeks glowing a darker pink, a becoming shade that highlighted his freckles as that bold splash of blood had all those years ago.

“That would be a shame,” Ed managed, swallowing uncomfortably behind the pressure on his neck. “It would be especially difficult to talk to you again if you did.”

“My point exactly,” Cobblepot growled, baring his teeth in an animalistic snarl. “You’re insane. Get help.”

“I’m—I’m assuming…not the sort of help that would approach you in a schoolyard?” he tried, tightening his grip on the Penguin’s wrist and tugging hard, begging, pleading, _ praying _ to break free. But praying, it seemed, was futile (as Ed had always expected), for the other man’s grip merely tightened in response, choking a whimper from Ed’s throat.

“You’d think,” Cobblepot spat, tugging Ed closer, “that a man in your position would know when his life is in danger. And I assure you, _ sir, _ it very much is.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Penguin,” Ed gasped, the title slipping past his lips naturally, “but…I know you. A-And I know that you’re familiar with that sort of threat, too. I—I’m speaking from experience, Mr. Penguin. I can help you. I helped you before.”

The feeling of the blade digging into his skin was alarming, admittedly, but Ed couldn’t find it in himself to cry or flinch, his eyes locked with the smaller man’s in search of a savior: a flash of recognition to pass his face or a gasping revelation.

No such thing occurred.

“I have no idea what the _ hell _ you’re talking about,” Cobblepot quite literally spat, his grip on Ed’s neck tightening even still. “I don’t remember you.”

“And…as feared…therein lies the problem,” Ed wheezed, eyes flickering shut in defeat. “I’ll leave you alone, Mr. Penguin. Just…please…_stop.” _

There was a terrifying moment where no movement was made, and Ed’s eyes burned with tears at the thought that this is how he’d die — being strangled by the one person he’d met that had (once) actually _ tolerated _ him. _ Liked _ him. Asked to _ marry _ him, though it had been out of childish naivety. What a cruel fate such a thing would be, so reminiscent of some sorrowful poetry or grim fairy tale that the smallest part of Ed felt content to choke in such a way.

But when the pressure was finally gone, that contentment disappeared, and Ed took in a sobbing breath, holding a hand to his tender neck and fighting the tears that were gathering in the corners of his eyes.

And then, with only the faint rustling of clothing as preamble, he was slashed across the face.

The pain was enough to pull him out of his near-death terror, eyes flying open and staring at the man before him in shock, blood trickling sluggishly down his cheek.

The eyes he met were by no means similar to the ones he’d seen in that schoolyard — if only he’d scrutinized them sooner, perhaps he might have seen the anguish they held, the darkness in them so great that their luster was physically dulled. The way there was no life to be found, only emptiness and depravity, dark pits to which there was no end and no escape.

If eyes truly were windows to the soul, then Ed had never been more scared in his life.

“Touch me again and I bleed you dry,” Cobblepot said flatly, for no intonation was necessary to perceive the genuine threat they held. And with those parting words, he turned on his heel and staggered toward the door.

It was wise to let him go, Ed knew, the gash on his cheek supporting that cause, but still, there was some tenacious spirit within him, one that felt entitled to elicit _ some _ reaction from the man who’d just made a mockery of him.

So he called out one last time.

“I still owe you a shirt,” he said, voice strained from his previous assault. They were words as vague as any of his others, but something must have changed in them, for the Penguin halted in his trek and stiffened.

He turned his head just slightly as if considering looking back at Ed, but after a lengthy pause turned back to the door and proceeded to leave. If Ed were to indulge his own naive fantasies, he thought he’d heard two words mumbled under the Penguin’s breath, two simple words that held an unknown world of meaning.

Edward Nygma.

It meant, if Ed’s ringing ears hadn’t deceived him, that the man was thinking if nothing else.

And in following weeks, Ed did his own fair share of thinking, every fleeting image in his head featuring one specific man, a man he seldom saw anymore and never spoke to since. In all honesty, he wasn’t a presence sorely missed, for Ed now knew the extent to which he’d changed, the healing wound on his face a wonderfully painful reminder.

But _ still, _ he thought, mused, remembered, meditating on a world that seemed so long ago, painting pictures in his mind’s eye of a boy he’d forgotten — a boy who’d grown into a horribly dangerous man that certainly left a lasting impression.

For that, at least, Ed was grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm,,,, not sure what this chapter is.
> 
> It took _a lot_ longer to update this than I wanted because my power went out! That's always fun.
> 
> Where is this story going? I don't know (actually I kind of do) but I hope you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading!!


	3. Scars May Fade, but the Memory of You Stays True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _With time, wounds healed. Or, at least, that’s what people said._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Warnings for this chapter!! Includes references to semi-unintentional self-harm, past abuse, and scars. Lots of scars. This whole chapter is about scars — metaphorical and literal alike.**

With time, wounds healed. Or, at least, that’s what people said. Ed had never favored that expression — in his experience, it couldn’t be more wrong. It was true, of course, that on the surface, the skin and cells grew to recover that new stretch of physical vulnerability, but the wound, the _ real _ wound never truly healed. Wounds lay deeper, brands beneath the flesh, nagging thoughts in the back of your mind and stakes through your heart. No time could ever heal a wound.

With time, scars fade. That, Ed felt, was a better statement, for at least it held more literal accuracy. No one said they healed — for what fool would think such a thing? — but instead, they merely grew paler, softer, less tender, fading from the surface to an almost ghostly white that was unnoticeable in passing. Scars faded but wounds remained — Ed wanted to coin that expression.

The scar on his cheek had only just started to pale, no longer an angry, pink laceration as it once had been. With time (and time had certainly passed) scars faded, but even still, the wounds remained. And what a wound that lay beneath that scar — every glimpse Ed caught of it in the mirror reminded him of angry, violent eyes and a hand around his throat. It was pitiful, perhaps, how many instances in his past were similar to that one ten months ago — so similar, in fact, that Ed often found himself getting those eyes mixed up. Were they charming, glittery, coruscating in oceanic beauty? Were they dark and nearly feral, the color of barren woods in the fall, desolate and ghostly?

It was a game almost, every memory something unpredictable — Who Choked Edward Nygma? Mr. Nashton in the study with a beer bottle in his hand. Mr. Cobblepot in the GCPD with a knife to his jaw.

It probably wasn’t a game that would sell too well to those untainted minds. Those angels with their vivid, lively eyes. How dare they live a life of joy when Ed was chilled to the bone and shovelling dirt over the corpse of his ex-girlfriend.

With time, scars fade. But a wound such as this, he thought, taking a shaky breath and wiping the cold sweat from his face, was one that would likely never heal too prettily, ever remaining an ugly, throbbing hole in his heart. How many of those had come and gone, he wondered. How he still had anything to pump blood with was another mystery entirely.

It had been an accident, he felt he still needed to stress. He’d loved her. He’d wanted her. He’d had her. And he’d killed her. Who Choked Kristen Kringle? Edward Nygma in the bedroom with tears in his eyes.

Of course it had been an accident, he’d said to himself over and over into the mirror. Then why am I not crying anymore? Why am I cutting her up? Why am I laughing?

He’d loved her, of course. But at the same time, there was room to love her more — room that would never be filled, for every time they touched, he thought of strong, thin hands. Every time they kissed, he thought of bloody lips. And the one time he’d had her in the way he thought he’d always wanted, he couldn’t focus for the images his mind conjured up of black hair he could grasp and dark, glittering eyes he could stare into.

Though the fantasies certainly resulted in better performance, he found himself unsettled and contemplative in the afterglow. Though they had been exceptionally thrilling, there was an admission he needed to make to himself.

He no longer wanted Kristen Kringle. Not as he once had, at the very least. She was a sweet girl, a lovely girl, smart and strong and beautiful and by God did Ed love her. But he’d killed her. And a day later, he couldn’t cry about it. Now, that left two things to consider — What did that say about him or what did that say about her?

In the end, Ed blamed it on himself. Kristen had been unbelievably loveable and charming and confident, and Ed had been embarrassingly naive and hesitant and uncertain. What did that say about him? It left him a lot to think about.

And from the way his eyes seemed to absorb all light when he looked at them in the mirror, how dark and soulless they were, matte and depraved, he wondered if he truly even had a heart to wound anymore.

“You drugged me.”

Ed had to suppress a laugh at the abruptness of such a remark.

Indeed, he had drugged the man in his bed — how was he expected to heal if he kept squirming around like he was? — but that had been a little over seven hours ago. It was an appropriate span of time for the sedative he’d been administered, and though Ed had subsequently been waiting for his guest’s awakening, he hadn’t expected him to be so quick to accuse mere moments after regaining consciousness.

“Yes,” he said, turning from where he was filling a glass of water to regard the Penguin’s expression. “And you cut me.”

It hadn’t truly been that difficult of a decision to take in the wounded bird once he’d found him abandoned and bleeding out in the frigid woods. He’d stumbled out of a dilapidated trailer ready to fight, brandishing some splintered piece of wood as if he expected to defend himself with it against the more able-bodied opponent he was facing.

It was only when he’d crashed to his knees that Ed had noticed the blood pasting his shirt-sleeve to his body, the grime covering his face, the dazed, glassy look in his eyes. And he’d said something then that Ed would never have expected so long as he lived.

_ “Help me, please.” _

And looking into those wounded eyes, seeing the blood spilling from between his lips, the desperate look on his face, how was Ed to refuse? He hadn’t done it before. He couldn’t do it then.

He turned the tap off with a decisive flick of his wrist and placed the glass of moderately cold water on a tray so that the Penguin might have a nearby surface to rest it on.

“I know you,” that dreary, nasally voice came again from a place over Ed’s shoulder.

“I wish that were true,” Ed mumbled solemnly, sticking a striped straw in the glass as an afterthought — whether it was out of spite or genuine consideration, he couldn’t bring himself to wonder.

“No, I do know you,” Cobblepot reiterated, squinting at Ed as he approached with the tray. “We met at the GCPD.”

“So, his memory isn’t horrible _ after _all,” Ed hissed under his breath, idly twirling the straw around in the glass as if to stir it — an action most unnecessary with a plain cup of water, but Ed supposed it was more an excuse to do something with his free hand.

“I hurt you,” Cobblepot added, either ignoring Ed’s comment or ignorant to it altogether. “I—I _ cut _ you. W…Why would you help me?”

Ed flicked his eyes up, straw halting in its mindless ministrations.

Why indeed, he thought, left eye twitching in protest against a phantom sting from the scar on the corresponding cheek. Why indeed would someone help one who hurt them before, sliced them from cheekbone to mouth (albeit mercifully shallow), humiliated them in front of coworkers who already couldn’t give a damn about them?

_Why _was the more sensible question, of course, but Ed found himself instead wondering as to _why not?_ _Why_ would any person in their right mind help a notorious killer? To counter, _why wouldn’t_ a man who’d just killed and buried his own girlfriend do the same thing? A right mind was overrated as it was.

“I work for the GCPD, Mr. Penguin,” Ed answered dully, denying the raging emotions in his mind permission to be voiced. “I see someone in a life-threatening situation, I want to help. Part of the training, you could say. Moral requirements — or expectations, rather.”

Cobblepot’s seemingly permanent frown worsened still. “You’re not a cop?”

“Heavens, no,” Ed scoffed, setting the tray down on the foot of the bed. “No, I’m in forensics. Funnily enough, the moral expectations for our division aren’t as high as those for a cop. Then again, it is Gotham — moral expectations are never too terribly unrealistic.”

“Wait,” the Penguin groaned, shaking his head as if to clear some unseeable fog from his mind, “so you helped me because…it was your moral duty?” He narrowed his eyes critically. “Are you sure it has nothing to do with your _ obsession _ with me? From what I remember of our encounter, you were quite…” He paused, chewing on his tongue, eyes sparkling as he searched for the right word — likely nothing too hurtful since he was quite vulnerable at the moment (even if Ed would never hurt him — but the Penguin didn’t know that). _ “Persistent,” _ he decided at last, finishing with a dramatic curl of his lip. Ed assumed it was merely a deliberate display of theatrics — he was steadily coming to the conclusion that half the Penguin’s points were stressed through needlessly exaggerated expressions.

“I’m not obsessed with you,” Ed answered vaguely, picking the tray back up and circling around the bed to relocate it to the nightstand. “I was merely operating under the naive assumption that you recalled what I did. It was careless and inconsiderate and probably a little discomforting. This,” he said, dragging the back of a knuckle along the scar on his cheek, “is the least I deserve. The least you could have done. A merciful fate at your hands, I’m willing to say.”

“Wait—no—what—recalled what you did?” Cobblepot stammered, visibly torn between what part of that rambling explanation to dissect first. “What do you mean? You kept saying something similar at the GCPD,” he added, leaning forward and tapping his finger against his knee as if keeping beat to an unheard song. “You keep implying we’ve met before — _ before _ the incident at the GCPD. But I don’t remember you.” He gave Ed a good once-over, eyebrow twitching. “And I have a fairly decent memory.”

Ed couldn’t help but to laugh. It was an oddly cruel sound, a dry, humorless chuckle, and in response to it the Penguin flinched and curled up tighter, physically closing himself off to any ridicule.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Penguin,” Ed assured, drumming his finger against the edge of the nightstand. “Something simple. Inconsequential. Perhaps I imagined the whole thing.”

_ It wouldn’t be the first time. _

He left that comment that out.

“I don’t believe that,” Penguin growled, dismissing Ed’s statement with a flick of his wrist. “You were very adamant about reminding me before. What changed?”

Ed shuffled his feet, lip twitching with barely suppressed ire. “Apparently taking a knife to the face is a pretty effective deterrent.”

It was a petty remark, not to mention considerably risky, but thankfully, the mobster remained seemingly unperturbed, at most rolling his eyes and huffing.

“What do you want, an _ apology? _ You were freaking me out. I was in a risky situation — I was on edge. I didn’t mean for it to scar.”

“Yes, you did.”

Cobblepot’s face fell in mildly frustrated defeat. “So what?” he snapped, moving to cross his arms but wincing at the strain. “You weren’t making any sense. I thought you were _ insane!” _

_ You’re probably not too far off, _ Ed thought with a sigh, lowering his head and scuffing the floorboards with the toe of his shoe. Insane was as accurate of a word as any, he supposed. _ Insane _ certainly covered everything he’d done, everything he experienced. All those nagging visions and thoughts, projections of repressed desires and impulses, an inclination for homicide, attraction toward a notorious killer that still had yet to be fully accepted — what category did that fall under? Insane was a broad term, but in Ed’s experience, perhaps he needed broad. He wondered if there was a more precise term, and if so, what it was. He’d always liked labels and precision — it calmed the mind.

And calm was what Ed felt he needed, for at the moment, there was nothing but silence — a strained sort of contemplative silence, tense and fraught with worlds left unspoken. Unspoken, yes, until they weren’t any longer, the Penguin’s voice breaking them with one simple, weighted word.

“What?”

When Ed at last looked up, the expression on the Penguin’s face was horrifically mortifying. It was an expression of shock, of dismay, of mild concern. It was an expression not unfamiliar to Ed. It was the expression of someone who’d _ heard. _

Heard what, however, was the question. What had Ed said to merit such a reaction? Or perhaps, he thought with a sickening twist of his stomach, it was what he had meant _ not _ to say.

“Did…” He cleared his throat, embarrassed by its weakness but too stiff with worry to act ashamed. “Did I say that out loud?”

“You did,” Cobblepot confirmed monotonically, staring up at Ed from beneath his eyelashes. “What do you mean?”

Ed stiffened, trying to recall all those nonsensical articles he’d read out of spite about putting up protective mental barriers, about how to seem more confident, more collected.

Unfortunately, none came to mind.

“A-Are you asking out of sincerity or mockery?” he asked instead, setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders.

Cobblepot’s eyelids flickered in annoyance. “Call it a precaution — self-preservation. If I’m in a psychopath’s bedroom, I’d like to know.”

Ed flinched at the name. Insane, perhaps, but a psychopath he was not. He liked labels, of course, but not that one. _ Never _ that one. And how fortunate (or perhaps _ unfortunate) _ the Penguin was to live in ignorance of what Ed had done to the last individual to label him as such. If enlightened, would he then hold his tongue? Be afraid? Tremble when Ed approached?

In any other circumstance, such reactions would be satisfying. In this man’s company, however, Ed found he wanted nothing of the sort.

“I’m not a psychopath,” he said for starters, turning so that his back was against the nightstand. “You’re not in any danger, Mr. Penguin, believe me. Moral expectations, remember? I have to stay true.”

“Your loyalty is commendable,” Penguin drawled, tone dangerously bordering on a sneer, “but I don’t tend to take people at their word. I imagine you’ll indulge me when I ask you to explain yourself.”

Ed maintained his eye-straining stare with the window across the apartment, not daring to spare the man to his left a mere glance. “I imagine it would be wise to do so,” he retorted, briefly looking down at his hands, tugging at his sweater vest.

“You needn’t imagine, friend, I’m telling you,” Cobblepot said, so vocally expressive that Ed could _ hear _ his slimy smile. It did nothing to settle his nerves. “Explain yourself.”

“I haven’t a word for it,” he said with a shrug. “I never thought it necessary. I overlooked it, mostly, brushed it off as something else: a vivid…childhood imagination, coping mechanisms, common things. _ Agreeable _ things. I always thought it was normal — perhaps I’d made myself _ believe _ it was normal. But nothing changed, and so the machinations of my mind remain a personal medical anomaly (though it’s not as if I’ve dared to chance a diagnosis). What conclusion can I come to other than the most obvious? I’m insane — you can see it in everything. The images. Visions. The voices. My eyes.”

“Eyes?” Cobblepot echoed, surprising Ed by choosing that particular piece of information to question further. “What about your eyes?”

Ed smiled faintly, a sort of weak, sad smile that almost physically pained him to pull. The memories were bittersweet. But perhaps, Ed digressed, a shameful spark of hope flickering to life in his chest, it was just significant enough to jog his guest’s memory.

“They look fake,” he said, finally tossing his head to the side to meet the Penguin’s soul-piercing stare. “I’m not from this city, and I’ve been reliably informed that they’ve looked this way my whole life. Why have eyes that look fake if you’re not from a city of carnage and desolation like the rest of the people around here? Further conclusive evidence supporting our former hypothesis.”

Cobblepot shifted slightly, grunting in response to the accidental weight he put on his right arm but ultimately settling again with his body angled toward Ed, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. “What do you mean they look ‘fake’?”

“Cold,” Ed said reflexively, smothering the pang in his chest with rambling words as he seemed to do so frequently — another sort of reflex, he supposed, to speak until he’d run out of words. Maybe then people would stop asking so many questions. “Empty. Soulless. Have you ever seen taxidermy?” he asked, offering the imagery as a reference point as he took a hesitant step forward. “That’s what they look like.”

“Good taxidermists can manage to portray a lively spark in their pieces,” Cobblepot countered, straightening his spine as Ed grew closer, a silent challenge, a wordless way to say that he wasn’t afraid.

“Then I shall criticize my maker when I meet him,” Ed replied with a humorless smile, bending over slightly to come closer to the Penguin’s eye level.

“Childish fantasies,” the man reprimanded lightly, clicking his tongue. “I expected better from a man so _ technical.” _

“Childish fantasies are sometimes the only light in the obscurity of life,” Ed said offhandedly, straightening back up and turning to take the water tray into his hands again.

“Who said that? A poet?” Cobblepot asked, eyeing the proffered drink warily.

“Nope,” Ed chuckled with a minute shake of his head, light enough to keep the water steady. “Just me.”

With some nonverbal insistence (or really just Ed rather rudely pushing the tray into his face), Cobblepot scoffed and accepted the drink, flicking the straw with a curled lip of disgust before extracting it all together, discarding it on the tray still held in Ed’s outstretched hands.

“Perhaps you really are insane, then,” Cobblepot said with the faintest hint of a smile, sipping the water carefully and swishing it around his mouth before swallowing. Though the action could be interpreted as a means of refreshing himself, Ed knew it was more likely a way to taste it, to check for any peculiar or insulting flavors that might indicate it had been negatively tampered with. Ed was surprised to find that he wasn’t too terribly offended by the Penguin’s overt distrust — it was precautionary, as he’d mentioned before. Self-preservation.

“Let’s hope so,” Ed replied with a complimentary smile, returning the tray to the kitchen counter. “If not, then my rescuing you must truly be born of obsession.”

“Yes,” Penguin hummed thoughtfully, pausing to take another noticeably less skeptical sip of water. “Your _ obsession _ with me. With a life we apparently shared in the past.”

Ed chuckled halfheartedly and shook his head, sauntering back to his place at the bedside with measured steps. “Not a life, unfortunately. Just a day.”

And what a day it was, Ed reflected. Perhaps it should be designated a lifetime, one’s entire past spent with this one man, the only individual in his present company. Ed decided he wouldn’t mind if he so chose to follow through with that absentminded thought — what a glorious thing it would be to discard the memories and images imprinted in his painfully retentive mind and replace them all with that one day, those few minutes spent with the only person it seemed who could truly bring themselves to smile at him.

Yes, Ed thought, _ that _ was his past — he remained Edward Nashton in the flesh, but only the Edward Nashton that existed in that mental portrait. Twenty-four years of lost time was not a thing to lament the absence of, he decided — if something equally as enjoyable had occurred as that evening in the schoolyard, he’d add it to his memory. If only such a thing was possible. Childish fantasies once more, a momentary slip, and he still was Edward Nashton, though the name no longer carried the positive connotation it had so briefly in his puerile reverie.

He’d made a promise to himself twelve years ago, a commitment he’d never forgotten until then: the moment his foot was out the door, Edward Nashton was dead in a ditch. If only the memories could be buried, too.

He’d remade himself, relocated, started over, and he truly might have forgotten that Edward Nashton was ever really a person at all if it weren’t for the scars that littered his body. Such ugly reminders, waxy eyesores that told the story of a past that so tenaciously refused to perish. He’d tried to get rid of them once or twice, hot spoons pulled from boiling water and curling irons pressed to those ridges of dead nerves, but he’d earned nothing for his efforts save more pain and second-degree burns.

Scars fade, but the wounds remained, raw and open and weeping, so ugly, so painful, and if fire couldn’t kill them, then what could? It seemed such drastic measures merely reinforced them, boldened the scars once more, returned them to the earliest stages of tender pink welts. Some of his “reinforced scars” still had yet to fade from that blushing pink — he found it to be an unfitting color when in such a controlled area.

“You risked the state of your face for the memory of _ one day?” _ Cobblepot asked, rousing Ed from the dangerous stupor he’d sunken into. “You make less sense the more I listen to you.”

Ed grinned toothily, chuckling somewhere low in his chest. “I’d take that as good news, Mr. Penguin — it means you’re remaining sane, for the most part. If my words can’t drive you mad, then perhaps nothing can.”

“You can’t drive me to a place when I’ve already arrived,” Cobblepot said with a mischievous smile, lifting his half-empty glass slightly in a mock salute. It was a recklessly forthcoming admission, and one Ed certainly did not overlook.

“M-Mr. Penguin?” Ed began, waiting until the mobster met his gaze before continuing. “I hope that you’ll forgive my straightforward nature and any offense it may cause, but you seem very…relaxed in my company. It’s a strong contrast to our first meeting — certainly not unpleasant, though, don’t get me wrong,” he added, cheek twitching with another phantom pain. “It’s merely…unexpected. What changed?”

With a contemplative sigh, Cobblepot lowered his drink, chewing on his bottom lip in careful thought before deciding on an appropriate response.

“As I said before, Mr. Nygma—”

“Ed,” he corrected, offering a small smile as an apology for his interruption once noticing the mobster’s startled expression.

_ “Ed,” _ the man conceded, practically tasting the word as he said it and apparently deciding that he liked it (which Ed wholeheartedly agreed with — the sound of his name uttered so beautifully from such delicate lips was entrancing and very likely a dangerous distraction). “I wasn’t in the best state of mind, so to speak,” Cobblepot continued. “Paranoia and ambition do not make for good bedfellows, so it seems. I thought you were placed in my path deliberately — a distraction, perhaps.”

“What changed, then?” Ed repeated, shuffling his feet anxiously.

Cobblepot sighed, rubbing the stress lines from his forehead. “I’m not entirely sure. Maybe you remind me of someone — _ something. _ And in light of that similarity, I must reiterate that I _ am _ sorry about your face.” He lifted his head and tilted it to one side, eyeing Ed’s cheek with such a critical stare that Ed felt the tips of his ears blush. “It should fade with more time,” the Penguin mused, nodding as if to assure himself of his words.

Such a simple statement, Ed thought, but even still it felt as if he’d had life breathed into him, his heart restarted after so long of standing still he’d forgotten what it truly even felt like to have life in his veins at all.

He reminded Cobblepot of something — those were his words. And maybe he didn’t remind him of the boy who’d doctored his busted and bloody face, but he reminded him of _ something, _ at least. It was unfair to expect him to so easily recall the occurrence that had been plaguing Ed’s mind twenty-four years if it hadn’t been significant to him in the first place. And though that speculation certainly merited some amount of mourning, Ed simply couldn’t find it in himself to follow through. Because with those words, he felt _ hope _ again. And the pain went away.

So he smiled.

“Scars always do.”


	4. To Our Well-Earned Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Is haunting something else that suits me?” Ed asked, head cast to the side in innocent wonder._
> 
> _“You are the most haunting man I’ve ever met,” Oswald praised with a soft smile. “You are a ghost, Mr. Nygma.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's back! Later than predicted, but what else is new.
> 
> I apologize again for having to take it down, but I'm _way_ happier with it now, and I feel it stays true to the aesthetics of everything :))  
The new ending may be a little disappointing to those who happened to read the original one, but all that snuggling? Still happened, you have my word.
> 
> I'm sorry it took me a whole month to update this. The original plans I had for the chapter were so dull and boring that I completely lost motivation to write for it, so I basically changed almost _all_ of my plans and wrote this really self-indulgent mess. With the revisions, I intended to bring back some of my initial plans, and though it started out that way, it...didn't really end that way. Oh well.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, thank you all for your patience, and thank you _conspicuous_absence_ for your comments and support :'))

A day ago, Oswald had been dead — that much, at least, he knew. Lying alone in the woods with a bullet hole in his shoulder and the same outfit he’d been shot in still plastered to his chest. It was likely the same outfit he’d be buried in, too, which was a personal disgrace, but if he was left to rot in the woods, then who was there to complain to?

He’d tried to maintain consciousness, some part of his brain telling him that he mustn’t go to sleep with this amount of rapid blood loss, so he’d tied off the wound as best he could and set to work plotting his revenge.

Theo Galavan was meant to die before, but instead, Oswald had been the one to take a bullet — how cruel, how ironic, how painfully _ Gotham. _ Shot in the back as his mother had been stabbed, the memory of which replayed over and over in his mind, every time his eyes slipped shut in sleep or in thought. Even with a blink, he could see her lying there on the ground, tears in her eyes and a pained expression on her face, trying so hard to maintain her soothing facade so as not to upset her little boy — always considerate, she was. A true mother.

But as time progressed, Oswald’s makeshift dressings had been bleed through, and in the process of replacing them, he’d been fascinated by how heavy his good arm felt, how fuzzy the world had become, how so very very _ tired _ he was. The trailer he’d stolen was not kitted with much, and though the only surface remotely adequate for resting purposes was a stained, creaky mattress in the corner, Oswald found in his delirious state that it looked quite like a kingly throne, laid out just for him. For that’s what he deserved, he thought as he’d eased himself down onto it — his own personal throne on which to be venerated. He’d had something similar enough in the mansion he’d taken to after earning his rightful title, but with the ceiling spinning above him and fading in and out of view, he accepted the likely fate of never being able to sit in it again.

And when the rustling outside had commenced, a fairly large part of him had been extremely content to let whoever was approaching finish him off for good — he could hardly sit up as it was. But thinking of that throne, that mansion, that title he’d fought so long for, he pushed himself to his feet with a groan, grabbing the longest, sturdiest piece of scrap wood he could find and stumbling his way to the door.

From the yelp that rang out through deafening silence, Oswald had supposed he’d hit someone with the door as he’d swung it open — and that someone had fallen, scrambling away from his approaching form, flinching when he’d raised the plank…

And gasping when he’d fallen to his knees. And the world went black.

When he’d woken up again, the pain in his shoulder had noticeably decreased, but his surroundings were so unfamiliar he’d found himself in a semi-lucid state of hysteria, hearing some voice and barely registering the face in front of him before the world had gone black again.

It was becoming a habit, and Oswald _ hated _it.

Now, though, he could see clearly, the neon sign from the window to his left bathing the apartment in a sickly glow. It caught every reflective surface in the room seemingly simultaneously, making the walls shine and sparkle and amplifying the illumination tenfold. It was vaguely charming in a way, Oswald digressed, turning his attention to the nightlife outside to watch the distant forms of cars flit back and forth down the unreasonably crowded streets, headlights pure and white and promising but too distant to hope for — not that Oswald would be hoping for anything different than what he had at that moment.

There was some nearly unintelligible tune warbling from the record player hidden in some dark corner, and though Oswald could only catch the occasional word or two, he thought it was pleasant. Appropriate, one might say, though he found he couldn’t discern as to why. The tempo was slow, the melody entrancing, perhaps, almost a lullaby. It was faintly reminiscent of those old black and white movies he’d sometimes catch his mother watching wistfully, chuckling softly to herself here or there at some part Oswald sincerely doubted was intended to be humorous.

They were always romance movies.

And the man that had saved Oswald, the man who’d pulled him from the icy hell in which he’d been trapped, the man who’d cleaned him and dressed him and stitched him and healed him, why he was tapping out a tune across the table, playing two glasses almost like an instrument with the chopsticks he had left over from their recent meal.

When Oswald had first finally registered his face after being drugged, he’d been shocked to find that it filled him with a sense of relief — not the kind one gets when surviving a near-death experience, he thought, but the kind one feels when they find a lost pet, something they’d thought long gone only to have it bounding back into their warm, loving arms again.

Oswald quickly decided that he hated such a feeling.

“I don’t understand how you can even sing along to that song,” he said with a laugh, shaking his head and refilling the beaker at his disposal, instruments of measurement now serving as makeshift glasses (or perhaps it wasn’t makeshift, Oswald wondered, and didn’t exactly know how he might feel in light of that situation).

“I don’t understand what you mean,” the man (Edward, he’d said his name was — _ Ed) _ said, mirroring Oswald’s gestures and topping off his own beaker of wine. “Do you not like it?”

“I don’t think I have a preference,” Oswald said with a shrug, tipping the cup back and savoring the dry warmth of the alcohol — something _ Edward _ had stressed was unwise to consume in Oswald’s current state, but even still as he’d said this, he’d pulled the bottle from his cabinets and retrieved two glasses. “Maybe not my type of music.”

“I didn’t know you had a type.”

“Everyone does,” Oswald scoffed, rolling his injured shoulder uncomfortably, hoping the pain would ground him somehow but instead realizing just how well it seemed he was healing. The revelation made him sad, almost, and the irrationality of such a reaction made him angry.

“Well then, Mr. Penguin,” Edward said (because he always did, always addressed Oswald so formally), rising from his seat and skipping over to the record player to sift through his stacks of albums, “what _ is _ your type of music?”

Oswald shrugged again, noncommittally, swishing around the contents of his glass before taking another deeper, larger swig. “I guess I don’t really know. Something slow, perhaps,” he said, dancing his fingers through the chilly air as if poorly playing some ethereal piano. “Something meaningful. Something poetic.”

“Ah, a _ poet,” _ Ed mused with a humorous chuckle. “And why do I find I’m not surprised?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Oswald groused, turning toward his cup to hide the blush he felt threatening to bloom over his cheeks. After another extended moment of sulking in silence, he sighed and set his cup down, cutting his eyes sideways to catch a fleeting glimpse of Edward’s looming form. “Am I really that obvious?”

“Obvious seems a cruel word,” Edward said with a scoff, sauntering back to his seat with a slightly unsteady sway to his step. “You just have…a very expressive face.”

“And in such a face, you can read my music preferences?” Oswald asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“In such a face I can see poems unspoken,” Edward corrected with a fond smile on his flushed face. “You have the eyes of a poet.”

“Dead, I presume?” Oswald scoffed, lounging back in his seat and prodding tentatively at his shoulder, which seemed almost fully healed judging from the lack of pain. Either that, or the pain medication and alcohol combination really was as effective as rumored.

“Very funny, Mr. Penguin,” Edward said, and though he wasn’t laughing, he was still smiling stupidly. “And _ yes, _ though I compared your eyes to my own which I then proceeded to compare to _ taxidermy, _ that does not mean that you have _ dead _eyes.” He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet once more, moving slowly forward until he was standing over Oswald almost menacingly, an unreadable yet warm look in his eyes. “They’re intelligent. Wounded. They reflect the hardships of war,” he described, hand shakily inching forward and Oswald holding his breath all the while. “They’re loving. But they’re angry. They’re cold. Beautiful,” he continued, uttering the last word in a breathy gasp as his fingers at last made contact with Oswald’s face, thumb brushing over the sharp curve of his cheekbone and the soft, purplish skin under his eyes. “They’re like the ocean. Tumultuous, ancient, wise, seeing years of adversity and turmoil but still continuing about its beautiful, destructive life. I have no doubt your eyes can erode mountains of the thickest stone, Mr. Penguin.”

With nothing else to do, Oswald blinked, mouth hanging open and eyelashes fluttering against the hand cupping his face. It was an unfairly tantalizing sensation, evoking within him feelings he hardly ever humored. And why now, of all times, he wondered, staring up at this man he hardly knew (but had lived with for a little over two weeks now). Why now, staring into those distant, glassy, cold but simultaneously warm eyes, cast black in the shadows of the green light outside?

Too much to drink, he decided, looking anxiously at the two bottles on the table, one of which was half empty and the other long since finished.

So many things on which to place the blame — the alcohol, the lighting, the music, the proximity. Who wouldn’t feel such things for the man who’d saved their life, standing above them a proud, assured and ethereal savior? It almost made Oswald choke.

Not enough to drink, he nervously corrected, hesitantly pulling away from Edward’s hand to finish the rest of his glass and fill it up again.

“I really shouldn’t be letting you drink that,” Edward hummed, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “It really makes for quite the dangerous cocktail in combination with your medication—”

“It makes for one hell of a relaxation is what it makes,” Oswald chuckled with a wink, sipping the new glassful and electing to savor the taste instead of using it to wash away the words his inebriated brain threatened to say.

Edward smiled in spite of himself, lips pulling back to reveal two rows of white teeth, damn near blinding in the neon light. The bottom row was slightly crooked, oddly spaced and uneven, but Oswald thought they were pristine, nevermind their typical imperfections.

It was a slightly demented smile, he could see that even in their lighthearted setting, the twisted curve at the corners of his lips and the flash of something unknown in his puzzling eyes. He could easily imagine it as the face of a killer, crazed and laughing and speckled with blood, and he had to turn to his wine again to force the imagery away.

“Then perhaps we should both try it,” Ed said, dropping back into his chair and lifting his glass in a salute. “To relaxation?” he said, phrasing it as a question to leave it open for Oswald’s approval, which he hastily gave with a sincere grin and a mirroring gesture.

“To relaxation,” he toasted, and by shoving troublesome obstacles out of their way, they brought their glasses together with a celebratory cheer and loud, genuine laughter.

The music Ed had put on almost half an hour ago was cheerier and more upbeat than the ones he’d previously been playing, but still by no means anything pertaining to Oswald’s “type.” Still, it was better, he thought, clutching his side and shaking his head as Ed moved shakily back and forth, balancing a broom he’d found in his closet on his chin with surprising success.

“Stop before you _ break _ something,” Oswald wheezed, draining the remaining contents of his glass into his mouth and swallowing them like a shot. They’d finished another bottle and yet Ed kept producing more, each one younger than the last but no less amount of delicious or satisfyingly intoxicating. Ed had drunk significantly less than Oswald, which he found he wasn’t surprised by, but still seemed equally if not _ more _ affected, which was even less surprising — he didn’t seem to be the type of man to imbibe for the hell of it.

“Uh, the only thing I’ll be breaking is my previous _ record, _ thank you very much,” Ed snapped back, voice strained from the strange angle of his head. “What are we at?”

Oswald glanced absentmindedly at his wrist, realizing only after a few moments that he wasn’t wearing a watch. Laughing at himself, he scanned the apartment, finally locating a clock on a far wall and draping himself over the back of the couch in his endeavor to read it.

“Uhh…eighteen seconds, we’ll say. How long are you shooting for?”

“As long as I can,” Ed replied, squeaking in fear when the broom began to wobble but quickly correcting it with some hurried foot replacement.

Oswald snorted and threw himself back onto the couch, rolling his eyes and giggling at the distortion of the world. “We could be here _ forever.” _

“Good!” Ed said too loudly, shifting his weight between his feet in an effort to keep the tilting broom upright. “I don’t wanna move on. I’m right where I want to be.”

Oswald squinted, lips curling in a curious smile. “With a broom on your chin?”

Oswald was shocked and infinitely proud to find _ that _was what made Ed finally lose his balance, crashing to the floor in a breathless fit laughter, the broom rolling away to some dark, dusty corner, a safe distance away from the perpetrator of its comedic misuse.

“Oh, good job, smart aleck,” Ed reprimanded, crossing his arms in defeat. “I could’ve made it to thirty.”

Oswald smiled and stretched himself over the arm of the couch, reaching for the newly opened bottle of wine and lifting it to the ceiling in a mock salute. “And by that point, I would’ve drunken myself into a stupor.”

“Oh, like that hasn’t happened already,” Ed scoffed, crawling toward the couch and collapsing against it, head reclined onto the cushions.

“Excuse you? I am functioning _ superbly, _ thank you for noticing.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, yeah — can you walk?” Ed inquired, narrowing his eyes pointedly.

“What a rude question to ask someone in my state,” Oswald deflected, deliberately kicking Ed’s head off the couch with his bad leg.

“Oh, you know that’s not what I meant!” Ed groaned exaggeratedly, pinning Oswald’s foot down and shuffling closer once more. “You’re _ drunk.” _

“You’re drunk!” Oswald retorted, hugging the bottle to his chest.

“I am _ not _ — did you even _ see _ that magical performance I just did?” Ed gasped offendedly, gesturing wildly to the open space in front of them.

“Unfortunately,” Oswald sighed with a put-on frown, breaking into laughter only when Ed smacked his thigh.

_ “Smart _ aleck!”

“Oh, shut up,” Oswald bit back, pulling his leg out from beneath Ed’s arms and nudging him away once more, watching him with no small amount of entertainment as he rocked and floundered before ultimately falling onto his elbows.

The childish shenanigans had begun around eight o’clock, nearly fifteen minutes post- Chinese-takeout. Ed had switched the records at Oswald’s demand, though neglected to put on something more to his taste in favor of “party music”, as he’d so designated it. Oswald had personally never really attended a party, both for lack of friends and for his mother’s anxiety at the prospect, but he felt quite confident in his assumption that the lively 60’s melodies filling the room were not what one might call “party music.” Nevertheless, it had kicked off the festivities, beginning with Ed dancing a mock of the Waltz with the broom he’d rushed to retrieve and ultimately escalating to the antics they’d only just put a decisive end to. A shame, perhaps, for now, there was an unforgivable absence of entertainment, but a mercy in more promising ways, opening the floor for new games to take their place in the limelight.

Oswald was almost as unfamiliar with games as he was with parties, the little homemade remedies for boredom his mother would offer in times of a blackout graciously excluded — he doubted Edward would have much more than a passing interest in them, anyway, and furthermore, Oswald could do without such a painful reminder of what he’d lost.

“Let’s do something else,” he prompted after a prolonged moment of silence. “I’m bored.”

Ed pried his eyes open from the lax position he’d let them slip into and adjusted himself so that he was facing Oswald, blinking languidly and smiling like a dope once more. “What did you have in mind?”

Oswald heaved out a dramatic sigh, scanning over the apartment for anything that could possibly serve to entertain. He’d looked over every corner almost three times before he hummed contemplatively and jabbed his thumb toward the far right wall.

“Does that actually serve a purpose, or is it just for decoration?”

Ed turned his head to regard the object of Oswald’s question, smile widening at the sight of his piano. “I see no point in buying an instrument if you don’t know how to play it.”

“Are you any good?” Oswald wondered, idly jabbing Ed’s shoulder with his toes.

“Depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you,” Oswald said, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“Then sure,” Ed said, grinning toothily. “I’m not half bad. An amateur singer, as well.”

Oswald hummed and narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips and prodding at Ed again. “You’re humble.”

“Insecure,” Ed corrected flatly, brushing away Oswald’s harmless assaults and wriggling out of poking distance.

“Your musical proficiency should be a bragging right,” Oswald scolded lightly, pointing an accusatory finger at Ed’s blurry face. “Be proud of it.”

“I am proud,” Ed defended, face falling into a frown.

“Then I’ll ask you again — are you any good?”

“See for yourself,” he said with a sly grin, shakily pushing himself to his feet and holding out a hand for Oswald. It was a simple gesture, really, but unexpectedly chivalrous, and Oswald was glad that he had a stomach full of alcohol to blame for the way his cheeks went ruddy.

With mutual assistance, they managed their way to the piano bench, all but collapsing onto it and giggling at each other for their incoordination.

“Now,” Edward announced as if addressing an audience, rubbing his hands together eagerly, “what shall we play?”

_ “We?” _ Oswald repeated, leaning into Ed’s space with wide eyes. “Uh-uh, no way — I don’t recall ever saying that _ I _ could play.”

“And just so, Mr. Penguin, perhaps you didn’t have to,” Edward said lowly, and it was truly unfair how silky and melodic his voice sounded, how it yanked Oswald’s gut to somewhere dark and indecent as if by a leash. “I could see you,” he continued in that same damned tone, brushing his palms against Oswald’s, “playing your legs along with the music. Humming, too. You wanted to _ sing,” _ he hissed, breath hot and cruelly distracting against the side of Oswald’s face, darkening his blush with each passing second. “Do you still want to?”

“I-I…” Oswald swallowed nervously, eyeing the ivory keys with something like premature regret in his heart, as if touching such an impeccable instrument would lead so swiftly to its demise. “I don’t wanna…ruin anything.”

“Ruin it?” Edward queried, pulling back to meet Oswald’s eyes. “Why would you ruin it?”

“Not…just the piano, but I…my voice, it’s…”

“Lovely,” Edward interrupted, taking the reins of conversation from Oswald’s shaking hands, catching his chin with his thumb and forefinger and directing Oswald’s attention towards him. “I bet it’s lovely. This isn’t a performance, after all. There’s no one to impress.”

“Oh, really?” Oswald snapped, quirking an eyebrow. “Then what shall I make of you?”

There was no immediate response, Edward merely sitting in stunned silence for a moment, blinking through a haze of confusion. It was unsurprising, Oswald supposed, to see him react in such a way. Maybe it had to do with the alcohol. It seemed everything did.

At last, Edward smiled, slow and wide, meaningful and almost frightening. “You don’t have to impress me, Mr. Penguin,” he assured lowly. “You already have.”

“Is that so?” Oswald said, persistent despite the damned way his breath caught in his throat. “What could I have _ possibly _ done to impress you?”

Ed shifted slightly on the bench with dizzying haste, angling himself so that he was more directly facing Oswald. It was disarming, admittedly, but in retrospect _ nothing _ compared to the way he reached forward, covering the backs of Oswald’s hands with his own palms and meeting his eyes intently.

“You’re a survivor,” he began, eyes dark and just barely visible over the rim of his glasses, which were balancing precariously halfway down the bridge of his nose. “You’re strong — _ unbelievably _ strong. You’re quick. Sharp.” He reached forward, tapping Oswald’s cheek in a vague effort to clarify. “Your tongue. You’re clever, of course. Observant. You’re charming, Mr. Penguin,” he purred, expression softening into something almost reverential. “You’re talented, too. And,” he began with a small nod, placing Oswald’s hands on the keys, “you’re picking a song.”

Oswald swore under his breath, mentally kicking himself for falling once more into the trap that was Edward Nygma’s words, and physically kicking Ed for daring to laugh at his inner turmoil.

If he was going to keep trailing off into those rambling tangents that so closely bordered on character analyses, Oswald truly doubted he’d survive the night. It was beyond enchanting the way he’d so completely arrest Oswald’s attention, eyes dark and soulful and sincere as he lost himself to the words it seemed he was dying to speak, damn near dabbling in poetry with every word he breathed.

It was almost infuriating, Oswald thought, for the tightness of his chest could certainly be nothing more than blood-boiling rage, as it had always been in the past, for no person had ever made him blush just from their words — in retrospect, he doubted that was a power that anyone should ever have. But, nevertheless, here sat this man, his savior: intelligent, handy, fascinating, flirtatious (though likely unintentionally), and so heart-stoppingly charming Oswald wanted to cut his face again.

Only, he thought with a frown, that wasn’t what he wanted. And with further inspection, he found he hadn’t the faintest _ idea _ what he wanted.

“I can’t,” he confessed with an apologetic shake of his head. “You choose one.”

Edward sighed in defeat, and what a liar it would make Oswald if he said his heart didn’t sink at the mere implication that he’d disappointed the other man.

Edward turned again so that he was facing the keyboard, biting the side of his cheek and letting his fingers brush across the keys thoughtfully, as if he longed to play them but was prohibited by some unknowable reservations. He was being fascinating again, the villain.

“Fine,” he said at last, proceeding to flash Oswald the most convincing pair of puppy eyes he’d ever seen. “You asked for this.”

It was almost startling, in a way, how quickly he leapt into movement, fingers dancing across the instrument and gently coaxing music from its cords, bringing to life a melody that was almost painfully familiar, taunting Oswald as he waited quite literally on the edge of his seat for the lyrics to begin.

And when they did, he swore and turned away, stifling his laughter behind his hand.

_ “Chiquitita, tell me what’s wrong,” _ Edward began, turning his head toward Oswald and batting his eyelashes, bottom lip protruding in a theatrical pout. _ “You’re enchained by your own sorrow.” _

“Wow, wonderful — very funny, Ed,” Oswald drawled, clapping slowly. “Truly, a brilliant move. You’re clever, we get it.”

Shaking his head with the promise of laughter still heavy in his chest, he moved to manually remove his roommate’s hands from the keys, only to be nudged aside and quite physically winded by Edward’s lilting voice as he continued with venomous tenacity.

_ “In your eyes, there is no hope for tomorrow. How I hate to see you like this…” _ He turned once more to Oswald, eyes dark as his face grew horrifyingly nearer. And Oswald held his breath all the while, heart in his throat and fingers gripping his thighs so tightly that they’d turned white. And maybe Edward noticed, for his gaze was focused on some low point on Oswald’s face, foggy-eyed and almost longing before looking up to hold Oswald’s stare. _ “There is no way you can deny it. I can see that you’re oh so sad, so quiet.” _

With a flourish he spun around, leaving Oswald breathless and shaking and unable to do anything more than watch him as he closed his eyes, body swaying with each movement of his hands, growing surer with the notes and letting the music soar freely wherever it pleased, filling Oswald’s ears and sending chills down his spine. Ed was so wholly invested in the song, so entranced by the world of possibilities at his fingertips that it seemed to Oswald he hadn’t touched the instrument in years. From the way he practically breathed the music, it truly wouldn’t have surprised him to learn that Edward had simply been born with such a gift but rarely ever put it to use.

And if that was true (though it was highly unlikely, the one logical part of Oswald protested), he was infinitely glad that Ed had chosen this moment to indulge himself.

_ “Chiquitita, tell me the truth,” _ Oswald contributed, mindlessly chiming in, and with the confidence and self-assurance he’d learned over the years, he decisively scooted closer to Ed, playing what little he could off the top of his head to make their amounting production more of a team effort.

_ “I’m a shoulder you can cry on. Your best friend,” _ they sang in unison, turning their heads the slight distance necessary to catch each other’s eyes, _ “I’m the one you must rely on. _

_ “You were always sure of yourself,” _ their song continued, though Edward retracted his hands in favor of gently threading them through Oswald’s hair, leaving him to guide them through the tune by himself. It was a gesture that very well could have cost him a finger, but with the lyrics that still poured from his mouth, it made more sense in an almost sickeningly sweet kind of way.

_ “Now I see you’ve broken a feather,” _ Ed sang, tugging so playfully, so lightly at a strand of Oswald’s hair that he almost lost the rhythm of his hands.

_“I hope,”_ Oswald proceeded shakily, ultimately missing a note and forgoing the rest of the song when Ed took his face into his hands, turning his head to meet his eyes for what felt the thousandth time of the night — not that the numbers mattered, of course, and certainly not that Oswald was counting. And even if he had been, he was sure that record would have been lost the minute he met Ed’s gaze, eyes unfamiliarly dark, roving over Oswald’s ever feature.

_ “We can patch it up together,” _ Edward finished, moving as if to brush Oswald’s hair out of his face but stopping himself, biting his lip and frowning.

It was a gradual process, scrounging up enough motivation to say _ something. _ And even when he felt at last it was satisfactory and he opened his mouth to speak, he found nothing more than shameful croaks and wordless babbling in his throat, the desire to speak his mind so strong he thought he might scream.

And when at last he’d managed something — a meek, choked whisper of Edward’s name — the man in question interrupted him, springing into action like a beast from the shadows.

“We should dance,” he announced, standing up abruptly and tugging Oswald with him to the center of the floor, the stage where he had been acting a fool not ten minutes prior.

“D-Dance?” Oswald croaked, blinking away the murkiness of his eyes and studying Ed’s face for any sign that he might be joking (dear _ God _ let him be joking). “You’re not serious, are you? Insensitive, maybe? My leg—”

“I’ll be dancing with you,” Ed clarified as if it could serve to console, making his way back to the record player and removing the vinyl that had been spinning all the while. “It’s just like the piano — you don’t have to impress anyone.”

_ “Different _ than the piano!” Oswald countered, hands reflexively clenching into nervous fists. “My _ hands _ aren’t crippled!”

“Oh, don’t put it like that,” Edward chided, eagerly sifting through his albums until he settled on one, yanking the vinyl from the sleeve and setting it shakily onto the record player. “You’re too harsh on yourself, really. You played the piano just fine.” He cast Oswald a meaningful glance over his shoulder, eyes glittering even from such a distance, so utterly similar to stars that Oswald wanted to scream once more, this time in protest against Edward’s God-given grace.

“And you sang _ beautifully, _ Mr. Penguin,” he continued, resorting once more to formalities — perhaps in a fit of anxiousness, Oswald thought, though his face surely let on nothing of the sort. “So, in spite of your reservations, I hope it’s not too bold of me to say that I’m sure you’ll be a terrific dancer.”

With that, he set the needle on a groove and raced back to his place, smiling down at Oswald as the music began to fill the air, uncannily similar to the one they’d played on the piano save for the initial difference in instrument.

“Follow my lead,” Ed instructed softly, guiding Oswald’s hands to his neck and placing his own on Oswald’s hips, a foreign sensation that almost shocked him into yelping. With deep, calming breaths, however, he grew accustomed, the heavy warmth of Ed’s palms on his body almost as intoxicating as the bottle of wine still sitting by the couch, the look in his eyes even more so.

They moved wordlessly through the repeated lyrics, swaying to and fro as Oswald imagined one might at a formal dance, all those occasions he deliberately missed out on when in school. It seemed pointless to him, the desire to dance in public in strict attire to decidedly tasteless music. And with present experiences, he was inexpressibly glad that he had made that decision — though it had caused him some juvenile anguish at first, he now knew just how fortunate he was to have waited for the perfect partner, one who accommodated his needs without drawing unwanted attention to them. One who dipped him gently when he tripped on his own feet. One whose voice he could feel the vibrations of in his own chest when they chimed in to the new verse.

_ “Chiquitita, you and I know, how the heartaches come and they go and the scars they’re leaving. You’ll be dancing once again,” _ Edward sang, turning Oswald suddenly so that their positions were switched and smiling down at him almost salaciously, Oswald observed with a traitorous twist of his stomach, _ “and the pain will end. You will have no time for grieving. _

_ “Chiquitita, you and I cry, but the sun is still in the sky and shining above you. Let me hear you sing once more like you did before, sing a new song, Chiquitita.” _

The irony of the situation in comparison to the lyrics almost felt arranged, and though Oswald wanted to accuse Edward of such mischief, his words were lost once more to the sensation of fingers brushing the column of his throat, dark eyes boring into his own.

And oh, how dark they were, Oswald realized with a labored breath. So dark, so rich, so deep and sad but happy and lovely. They were unlike any other, Oswald knew that for a fact, and though they still maintained some artificial gleam, Oswald found it disgraceful for anyone to have ever compared them to that of taxidermy, for no artist, no matter how talented, could ever come close to replicating that expression.

_ “Try once more, like you did before, sing a new song, Chiquitita.” _

And with that, it seemed Edward was content to cease all singing, choosing instead to guide them into a more elaborate dance that led them across the entirety of the open space at their disposal, short steps and admittedly artless twirls, the connection of their eyes never breaking, even when the song at last came to an end and they were back in their starting position.

As was the debatable disadvantage of vinyls, the brief silence they had transitioned suddenly into the next song on the album, the unique composition almost instantaneously recognizable. Though Oswald had always loved “Lovers (Live a Little Longer)”, he wanted nothing else at the moment than for it to suddenly catch fire and plunge them once more into silence.

Edward didn’t seem bothered, however, still lost somewhere in the world behind Oswald’s eyes, and Oswald, in turn, lost in Ed’s. And in them, he thought he could find salvation, a refuge from the cacophony of the world. With them as the only thing he could see, he truly felt he could live a little longer.

“Damn your eyes, Edward Nygma,” he muttered at length, breaking the personal silence they’d forged without labor.

“Why is that?” Ed asked, brow twitching with mild concern, though those cursed eyes still never left Oswald’s face.

“They’re too sharp,” Oswald replied simply, trailing his hands from the nape of Ed’s neck to his jaw, cupping his face with one hand and brushing along the line of his scar with his other thumb.

“I regret this more and more each day,” he digressed, running the pad of his finger back and forth to catch the raised texture of the skin. “It hardens your features. Makes you almost frightening.”

“You don’t want me to be frightening?” Ed asked softly, turning his head down slightly so that Oswald’s thumb slid up to the crest of his cheekbone, nearly touching his lower lid.

“Frightening doesn’t suit you,” Oswald admitted with a half-apologetic shrug. “Chilling, perhaps. Unnerving. I could see you looking sly, looking fierce, looking _ cold. _ But not this grade of frightening.”

He brushed the tip of the scar where it was the slightest shade darker, remembering with a nauseous ache how the blood had welled from it so suddenly. He’d made Edward Nygma bleed, made him scar — such cruelties he deserved because of it.

“Bikers have this sort of _ frightening,” _ he continued, not yet done with his explanation. He needed Edward to understand what he meant, couldn’t let him operate under the assumption that he was meaning to insult him. “Bikers with no sense of style or classically good looks. Bikers that smell of smoke of every kind and the cheapest beer they sell. That sort of frightening,” he concluded, tracing the outline of Ed’s jaw, admiring the sharpness of his bone structure. “That simply doesn’t suit you, Ed.”

“And,” Edward began, expression impassive but eerily dark, “what _does_ suit me, Mr. Penguin?”

Oswald needn’t put any thought into his answer, the words falling past his lips before he truly had time to realize what he was saying.

“Expensive wines. Good taste. The finest clothes,” he criticized lightly, tugging at Ed’s maroon sweater with a teasing hum. “You exude a certain style, Mr. Nygma. It reeks of sterility and precision, mischief for the sake of mischief. Songs played by hand to serenade the gangsters you’ve accepted into your home,” he added with a fond smile. “Slow dances in the dark. That’s what suits you.”

“And the scar ruins that?” Ed wondered, narrowing his eyes despite the smile that upturned the corners of his lips.

“It draws attention,” Oswald explained with an apologetic wince. “And it detracts from your eyes. You have the most haunting eyes I’ve ever seen. Damn them,” he repeated for levity, though his voice was soft and breathy, a fate beyond his control.

“Is haunting something else that suits me?” Ed asked, head cast to the side in innocent wonder.

“Most definitely,” Oswald said with a nod, and only once it was said did he realize the extent to which it was true. If he had one word to describe this man (an impossible feat, but for the sake of the point he was trying to make, he allowed it), he decided at that moment that he would use “haunting.” “Charming” was a strong contender as well, though more accurate still stood the former, for it could be used to describe every aspect of his being — his face, his mind, the stern line of his mouth, his voice, his wit, his candor. How anyone could ever forget such a man, Oswald hadn’t the faintest idea.

“You are the most haunting man I’ve ever met,” Oswald praised with a soft smile. “You are a ghost, Mr. Nygma.”

And to anyone else, those words might have been offensive. But Edward Nygma was not anyone else, and he smiled in response to them, covering Oswald’s hands with his own as if to hold them there against his face.

“For the first time tonight, Mr. Penguin,” Edward teased, damned eyes sparkling with perfect impishness, “I believe you might be right.”


	5. Through the Valley of Darkness, We March Side By Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for this chapter!! Includes blood, broken bones, blunt-force trauma, lethal beatings, background gun violence, and references to past child abuse. All of it's poetically described because I hopped on my high horse and decided to write poetically.**
> 
> Here it is, chapter 5! It took me 957 years to post this because I had a bout of writer's block that I _could not_ shake until I decided to write...like this??? I'm sorry if the change in style is not to some people's taste. Also, this was not posted before Thanksgiving as I hoped, but instead a few minutes late. Happy Thanksgiving nonetheless! Have some murder for your troubles :))

There had always been an inherent understanding that Ed’s apartment was not made to comfortably hold more than three people. It seemed a sensible enough regulation, and one Ed had never questioned nor cared to test the validity of. Three’s a crowd, or so he’d always believed, never one for overly-populated social gatherings.

Work was another situation entirely, an inconvenience unavoidable if he wanted to remain employed — and though his coworkers were inconsiderate and the working conditions were far from ideal, he had wanted to remain that way.

Recent events, however, had thoroughly changed his mind.

The salvation of the Penguin had been a risky decision as it was, one that — if found out — could lead to his incarceration and the mobster’s execution. Harboring a fugitive (who had made artful attempts on the current standing mayor’s life, no less) was still a crime, Ed had to remind himself so frequently, staring at the Penguin’s sleeping form and conducting a cycle of words through his head to stress his misdemeanors to himself alone.

_ Murder, crime lord, sadist, psychopath… _

With stern self-scolding, he struck the last word through. Such negative labels he’d personally decided were to be adamantly excluded from his lifestyle. Personal experience merely added to the burn (as if it weren’t charred black already).

And though a criminal, murderer, crime lord, sadist Penguin may be, Ed found it almost endearingly pitiful of himself how willing he was to so swiftly forget the guidelines of his apartment occupancy and allow him a venue in which his henchmen and respective gangsters could convene in preparation for Galavan’s assassination.

It was a risky procedure, Ed knew, with the unreasonable addition of Jim Gordon, whose presence in the apartment was brought about solely by Penguin. Criminal, murderer, crime lord, sadist he may be, but seemingly still not one to leave a bloody, half-beaten Jim Gordon lying on the filthy floor of a warehouse. If such mercy alluded to the possibility of a sympathetic streak within the man, Ed chose to ignore the faint flicker of something white and pure inside of him at the thought (it was the spark of a familiar flame, the warmth of  _ hope). _ Such sympathy could mean there was still a remaining sliver of that small, blonde boy of years past. Though the more Ed reminisced, he wondered if there ever was an  _ ounce  _ of puerile sympathy to begin with.

He conceded Jim’s involvement, however — whether for the sake of avoiding an argument or in true respect of Penguin’s wishes, he didn’t bother wondering. A part of him knew the answer already.

Jim Gordon, he decided, he could live with. The addition of Bullock, two personal acquaintances of the billionaire child Bruce Wayne, and the brief appearance of Lee Thompkins (it seemed a certain someone was pregnant, which Ed found he wasn’t as surprised to hear as he felt he should have been) he could have certainly done without. But Penguin was content with the new recruits — or so he seemed — and there was an additional inherent understanding that Ed was not one to counter these opinions, whether it was his apartment or not.

By that logic, the table was cleared and filled with weapons Ed had an embarrassing lack of firsthand familiarity with: shotguns, handguns, knives, rifles, even a stray pair of nun-chucks. There were a few police issue pistols strewn throughout the apartment — lying here or there — though no one dared to touch them lest they suffer the consequences of Gordon or Bullock’s wrath.

He watched them all with thinly-veiled intrigue, studying their movements, the stretch and flex of their muscles not passing unnoticed as they strapped themselves into bulletproof vests.

Ed had never been a very strong individual — always lanky, always lean, pale and thin and bony and an easy target to take down — maybe that was why it seemed no one was even considering enlisting his assistance. He was certainly no help to anyone as he was, sitting in the corner beneath the neon rays of light spilling in through his window.

Outside, the sky was dark — a sort of soulless, inky blackness that obscured the stars and loomed over the city like a cloak. Ed turned his attention to it in a fit of distraction, regarding it for all its melancholic worth.

They were safe inside these walls, Ed thought, idly kicking one for reassurance. In here, they wouldn’t be mowed down like sitting ducks. Out there, the city was blanketed in a veil of apocalyptic twilight — an omen, Ed feared, of an unsavory inevitability. What was death but a personal apocalypse, an inkblot stain upon the endless possibilities of life? When you reached it, you stopped. Threw away the paper. Started over.

And would it leave a stain, Ed wondered, if he were to trail his hand across the sky? Would it coat his fingers in that same sort of blackness, like a child finger painting a world of wonder beyond the scope of reality? Could he control the timing of that inkblot, save the Penguin’s life from an end of dissatisfaction, a page of unwritten possibilities cut short for his own carelessness?

If Ed could paint the world (or even just a page), he pondered what color he would choose, what fate he would condemn a life—the city—the planet in its entirety to. A sort of neon hellscape born only from the naivety of a child’s mind?

Looking out at the city as it stood, listening to the cock of a gun and the hiss of a blade in its holster, Ed knew if he were to repaint the world, he wouldn’t even consider the brighter spectrum of colors. Envy, perhaps — long for, even — but consider it, he would not.

Monochromatic, he decided, with the occasional pop of red. Red and black and white, staining his fingers and splashed across the canvas of the world, lives led and possibilities inscribed in the colors of Ed’s heart. What a world, he thought, looking down at his hands, almost faintly hoping to see the colors of his endeavors spattered across his skin. And was it irony instead that they were barren and bland, soft and unassuming, the hands of an inexperienced killer?

Oh, what a world, he lamented, turning once more to regard the small armory set up in his crowded apartment. What a world that he was not considered for the army of Penguin’s making — what a world that on the outside, he was painted head to toe in bright, neon green. The coloring of childish incompetence. Of course he wasn’t Penguin or Gordon or Bullock’s first choice — they hadn’t given him the chance.

He supposed he’d just have to ask.

“What?” Penguin said flatly, expression balanced between enraged and appalled, teetering on a knife’s edge.

“I want to come with you,” Ed reiterated for the sake of filling the silence with something other than palpable tension. “I want a gun. I want to help.”

“Ed, are you  _ insane?” _ Penguin shrieked, like a kettle’s whistle, a glint of something lethal in his icy eyes. Enraged, it seemed, had won. “This isn’t a  _ game. _ This is murder!”

“And are you blind?” Ed dared to recriminate, overlooking the frighteningly high risk of losing his tongue for the sake of his own sanity. “This isn’t a  _ joke, _ Mr. Penguin. You’re taking a party of the city’s most renowned detectives to assassinate the  _ mayor.” _ There was a flicker of hesitation there, a wave of anxiety that Ed sated with a careful glance down the hall, assuring himself there were no nosy neighbors eavesdropping to appease the predictable boredom of their mundane lives.

“Detectives  _ you _ have worked with closely for  _ years!  _ What would they think, then?” Penguin asked with a glare. “You can’t come.”

“You’re thinking of me as a coroner,” Ed hissed, finding his tone reminiscent of an accusation. He set his jaw and stood his ground to support it.

“Of course I am!” Penguin cried, throwing his hands in the air. “What would you have me think of you as? A killer? A psychopath?” Ed couldn’t help his wince. “Do you  _ want  _ me to rope you into the category of qualifications I had in mind when putting together this little gang? Do you think I chose them because I  _ liked _ them?”

Sparing a glance through the slit in the sliding steel door, Ed narrowed his eyes at the back of Jim Gordon’s head. Even if it hadn’t been a rhetorical question, he knew Penguin wouldn’t want him to answer as truthfully as he wanted to.

“It’s quite the opposite, in fact,” he continued, voice dropping and regaining Ed’s attention. “I chose them because they’re brutes. Because my half,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder to his unseeable crew, “would follow me to the pits of Hell without a single independent thought. Because I can rely on Jim Gordon to act out of blind passion, even momentarily. Because,” he added with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, “Bullock will follow  _ Gordon _ to the pits of Hell. Because Mr. Fox and Mr. Pennyworth would march into the fire to save the likes of Bruce Wayne.”

“And is that where you’re going?” Ed asked, finding there was no remaining trace of argumentative fire in his heart. Instead, he was speaking from pure, bloody sincerity. Genuine concern. “To Hell?”

Red against white and black was an eyesore, Ed knew. An artistic choice. The stark vulnerability of his tone was similar, judging from the shocked softening of Penguin’s expression.

“I’m going to face off against the Devil,” he said with a sigh, letting his shoulders slump slightly and his tone shift to an almost apologetic confession, a change Ed was certainly not fond of. “I don’t want you to have to go there with me.”

Steeling himself, Ed stood taller, breathed slower, stepped closer, meeting Penguin’s gaze when he looked up.

“Would you fear me, Mr. Penguin?” Ed began, the softness of his voice drastically unbefitting of his feigned composure. “If I wasn’t the man you thought I was?”

“I fear no men, Mr. Nygma.”

Ed’s lips twitched — further contrast to his facade, the strike of a match to melt the ice. “How very convenient for you that must be.”

“There’s no point in fearing what you can’t avoid,” Penguin explained, standing his own ground far more confidently than Ed, despite the disadvantage of his height. “People are everywhere. Whether they stand superior to you or not is a destiny of your own making.”

“Will you let me make my own destiny then, Mr. Penguin?” Ed asked, forgoing his composure in favor of bright, neon candor. “Let me write my own story? Paint the world?”

He could see the shorter man’s eyes narrow in curiosity, pondering the analogy. Standing his ground. Hesitating.

“It’s dangerous,” he said at last, a final attempt at dissuasion, weak and cold and  _ afraid. _ He was  _ afraid.  _ The notion was fuel enough to light a new fire in Ed’s chest, one that made his lips purse and his fingers tremble as he reached for Penguin’s hands, holding them in a loose grip for the man to escape if he wanted to.

He spared the foreign contact a fleeting glance of indifference but didn’t pull away. Ed gripped them tighter.

“Which is precisely why I insist on coming.”

From the look in Penguin’s eyes, how vulnerable they were, his heart laid naked and jagged at Edward’s feet, he knew he’d won.

The city was as dark as Ed had predicted while looking upon it from his window. It was cold, too — something he had not been able to tell until thrust into its icy heart like a baby bird thrown from the nest. Cold and dark with an air of something sickly and malignant hanging heavily around them, filling his lungs and huffing out in a cloud of crystallized heat. They were breathing death, Ed thought, glancing sidelong at his accompanying infantry to see if they were as perturbed by the thought as he was.

He was met only with steely complexions and rigid postures (spines straight, shoulders back — hide the beating of your heart), eyes cold and set on the task before them, their destination looming in the distance like a siren song. Ed had never expected Hell to look so sleek.

There had, of course (for an assassination mission in Gotham could never be exclusive), been spontaneous recruitment. Ed’s inclusion had been questioned by almost everyone in the room that knew him, Gordon expressing a very keen skepticism for Ed’s ability to wield the gun he’d been given (which Penguin had taken the time to make sure was one of the biggest ones — extra protection), and whether or not he’d have the stomach to use it when the time came. He’d almost been tempted to rebut that disrespectful incredulity with the mention of the murders he’d already committed, but graceful common sense had overpowered his ambition before he could let his mouth run wild.

With Ed’s impromptu involvement, there also came the recruitment of a certain leather-clad teenage thief, who had helped herself in through the window Ed had been sitting adjacent to not ten minutes prior. She looked as if she wore the sky itself on her shoulders, dripping head to toe in twilight, and upon seeing her, Ed had sincerely questioned the safety of his apartment as well as the stability of his own mind — how unfortunate for him it would be if he was to start seeing anthropoidal manifestations of their collectively reckless decisions. That was just stress he did not need.

A brief back-and-forth introduction conducted by Gordon had resulted in Ed’s knowledge that the newcomer’s name was “Cat”, and after a mild altercation with vague and irrational points, her role was decided as something along the lines of a docent, their own personal guide to direct them through the allegedly secure and confusing halls of the Hell they were marching ever closer to.

Despite the distinct and circumstantially appalling age difference between Cat and their battalion, Ed found her presence surprisingly less discomforting than most. She carried herself proudly, marched with purpose, had a certain confidence not entirely dissimilar to that of Penguin. Plus, her remarkable flexibility and acrobatic agility  _ did _ make for one hell of an advantage.

And to her credit, Ed couldn’t hear a single sound or sign of struggle from within before the door to the parking garage slid open, the elderly metal grinding angrily in a scream of protest Ed felt resonating deep within his heart.

It was anxiety — that much was all too clear. He still had a conscience, though it may have been irreparably split, and even through the drone of immature excitement could he hear the words the more moralistic part of his psyche was preaching.

They were marching into Hell —  _ willingly  _ — to drive a knife into the Devil’s heart. Pray he had one, Ed thought, staring up at the tower’s leaning facade before following his fellow lemmings into the unknown.

“Do you like her?” Penguin asked offhandedly, falling back from Bullock’s side and encouraging Ed to do the same with Gordon to keep their exchange more private. If Ed hadn’t tracked the mobster’s line of sight, he wouldn’t have even known who they were discussing.

“She’s quick,” he willingly admitted, admiring the way Cat’s jacket caught the light of the fluorescents, shiny and sleek like a feline coat. She couldn’t have been wearing the night, then, Ed assured himself, for he could speak from experience that all light was lost to the darkness above them. “Physically and mentally,” he clarified.

Penguin nodded critically, tracking the girl’s movements with an almost appraising look in his eyes. “Fish liked her too,” he said solemnly, face eerily impassive. “I’d assume for the same reasons. That, and she’d follow orders — conditionally. A thrill-seeker. Anything to keep her out of the cold, I bet.”

“Then, is this for the thrill,” Ed asked, slowing even more as they turned a corner, “or is there something more?”

“You can never tell with her ilk,” Penguin remarked with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Although, she seems to have an on-again-off-again acquaintanceship with Bruce Wayne,” he added with a conspiratorial smile, sly and far too entertained by the drama. “A billionaire and a bratty thief — quite original, don’t you think?”

“Wayward souls,” Ed observed, prohibiting himself from pondering the Penguin’s fascination with the relationship lest he become invested as well. “Seems there’s no shortage of those here. There’s something attractive there, I suppose. The promise of someone similarly lonely to fill the hole in your heart.”

“Are you speaking personally, Ed?” Penguin hissed, almost teasing, if such lightheartedness were permitted for their circumstances.

It was an invasive question, but Ed supposed it had been intended rhetorically — an amiable jest, a taunt, perhaps, the objectives of which still eluded Ed.

He smiled nonetheless, toothy and exaggerated, narrowing his eyes in a silent retort. Because of course, how could Penguin ask such a thing in knowing Ed, in knowing that he could not stand to let it go unanswered?

“A hole was left in my heart very long ago, Mr. Penguin,” he said, watching as Penguin’s smile fell. “I fear it may only be filled by the person who made it.”

An end to the conversation, it seemed, a quite melancholic conclusion to whatever purpose it had been started for in the first place. And they returned unanimously to the situation at hand, the severity of which Ed had almost forgotten for their lighthearted exchange.

Distantly, he feared perhaps the objective of the exchange had been nothing more than to elicit smiles and laughter in the event they never got to do so again. A last meal of sorts, to feast upon each other’s bright faces in the height of a shared joke — a compassion Penguin had been willing to offer freely, something Ed hadn’t the sense to even consider.

He pushed the thought away with a horribly sickening feeling, clutching the gun he held tighter to his chest as if it were a promise.

They  _ would _ laugh again, smile at each other like they meant the world, rear their heads to the gods and feel the rain on their faces, the sky parting to allow them a single ray of sunshine to relish once more.

And maybe such a thing wouldn’t happen now, not with the daunting task of ascending the formidable staircases they’d been led to. And maybe not soon, with the pained expression Penguin was endeavoring to hide halfway up the third flight. Perhaps not even within the next hours, on the same day, for they were finally bursting through the doors from which some incessant chanting was sourced, standing face-to-face with a distinctly incongruous cult.

They were standing at the Devil’s gate, their hands clasped firmly on its blistering bars, and maybe Ed would not get to see Penguin laugh again for another week, but he  _ would _ see it once more.

A promise. He clutched the gun tighter.

A thug to his right was the first to fire their gun, an ear-splitting sound that shook Ed to his very core, a sort of personal clap of thunder, a rain cloud over his heart — a hell of a kickoff to the battle he felt he’d only now set foot in.

It was shameful, he knew and feared all the same, to freeze up as he did for how eagerly he’d volunteered (volunteered, of course, a loose term — he’d all but dropped to Penguin’s feet and begged for a place at his side). Foolish arrogance, he thought, steadying the rifle in his arms. Foolish arrogance amounting to a crescendo of inexperience, Ed’s special place in Hell where he could do nothing but ache and burn inside with a fiery desire to pull the trigger and mow everything in his sights down. Sinful coveting born of the Devil’s temptation, a voice in his head chanting its own song of vindictiveness, a promise of redemption Ed could damn near cry at the beauty of.

But he found that even with aiming at someone’s chest, his blood roaring in his ears (never loud enough to drown out that voice, however, Ed bemoaned — a deplorable misfortune), he couldn’t fire. And it was certainly for no lack of desire, but instead, for the fault of a distraction — a little bird flitting by his window, a robin with plumage all puffed slinking along the outer edges of the room, firing when necessary, never speaking.

And in blatant disregard of that blood-curdling cry in his head, he lowered the gun and darted after him.

Chasing birds was often a futile pastime, Ed had learned through countless occasions of shameful trial and error. Often the most beautiful kind were the most evasive, their vibrant fringe a promise of secrets most delectable, stories never to be told to the unworthy ears. Bright, blinding shades of blue and red, the yellow of a goldfinch, the iridescence of a hummingbird. Colors and placidity Ed could never afford, sinking meek and small into his quiet, vulnerable role, watching them flit away from him like dreams gone by.

What lives they must lead, wearing their souls on their backs and spreading their wings to freedom, careless of what ridicule it may cost them. He’d often found himself wondering if wearing one’s heart on their sleeve could truly serve to liberate, give him wings to soar and the assurance that if he were to head for the sky, he would make it.

In practice, he’d only ever had that sleeve torn off, his heart beaten and bruised.

With black and blue plumage, would anyone care to chase after him with their arms spread wide and mind filled with naive wonder for the beauty of privilege? A flying sign of times survived, an omen of perseverance. There was beauty in that, Ed supposed. And he  _ was _ tailing a bird of black and purple, hurt but stronger for it, fiery of soul and sharp of wit. Exceptional beauty, Ed corrected subconsciously, admiring the carnage that lay at his feet in the Penguin’s wake.

A beautiful bird he swore never to lose again.

“Where are you going?” he hissed, finding himself (to the amazement of a starry-eyed, bruised little boy) by Penguin’s side, marching in time with him, gazing upon the beautiful curve of his beak and the predatorial lethality in his shifty eyes.

“I’m following Galavan, if that’s all right with you,” Penguin shot back, glaring at Ed for all his stuttering, incompetent ways but neglecting to send him back to the battlefield from which they’d successfully escaped. Ed took that as permission enough to continue in his pursuit.

He saw no issue with seeking out Galavan exclusively — perhaps the insignificance of the cultists had contributed to Ed’s hesitation in killing them. What point was there to kill if it wasn’t good for recognition or revenge? It seemed a waste of ammo, Ed thought, smoothing his hands along the firm figure of his rifle. A waste of a “first time.”

The hall had led them once more to the foot of an unreasonably expansive staircase, which Ed could not help but to admire the ornate architecture of. There was little more than an aggravated huff from Penguin to prelude their ascent before they began, the mobster mounting the stairs with the same unsteady, erratic gait he had assumed before.

Ed followed close behind but opted for a slower pace to assure himself of his ability to assist were the wounded man to fall in his rapid ascension. There was an almost innate desire to hover his hands over Penguin’s hips, promising them both a modicum of stability in the event of a misstep, but he ultimately decided against it in favor of trailing his fingers along the glossy finish of the railing.

Of what use could he be to a bird that could still fly, after all? For all its wavering soars and abnormal flutters, it still flew better than he, was still free for the grace of its self-assured bravery. Ed feared that may never be a privilege for him to enjoy — that cold-hearted bastard, endowing only the fairest possessing the sharpest sword and strongest resolve with a pair of wings. What a world, he thought dryly. It wasn’t his fault he feared the repercussions of flamboyant amour-propre.

The gunfight could still be heard below them, a faraway thought for their current predicament, growing ever fainter with their amounting distance until it was nothing more than an almost comforting hum at the back of Ed’s mind, a melancholic lullaby to soothe the raging temptation pounding in his skull.

They were met with another long hallway at the top of the stairs, (it seemed the mayor valued repetition above most anything else), one which Penguin bounded down with little hesitation upon picking up the sound of distant chatter, propelling himself forward with reckless haste that would likely end his life if Ed didn’t interfere.

In spite of all his criminal reputation, it seemed Penguin was not the most adept at identifying a heated conversation, an ability Ed had possessed for years but never thought much of until the moment he clasped a hand over Penguin’s uninjured shoulder, pinning him to his place before he could charge headfirst into the room.

“Wait,” he cautioned, voice hushed and noticeably breathless, and he hadn’t the time nor patience to wonder whether it was caused by the rush of hearing Galavan’s voice or the fear of getting shot (a terror he’d held close to his heart since stepping foot outside his apartment).

Though the audacity of his precaution earned him a chilling glare from the mobster, he conceded to the touch nevertheless, withdrawing from the door until Ed could feel the heat of his skin against his chest, radiating through the layers of their clothes for all the man’s murderous excitement.

There was a touch of voyeuristic nature to their current situation, Ed supposed with a curl of his lip. Standing outside as still as they could manage, statuesque and patient, like a cat preparing to pounce, listening with the utmost concentration to the subtle shifts and echoing shouts that made Ed flinch involuntarily. It was a reaction ingrained in the very algorithm of his being, and one he felt most ashamed of now that he had a reputable audience to turn and gaze at him with mildly concerned wonder.

The acrimonious dispute (which Ed had concluded to be born of familial discord, shouted threats and disregards of past connections) lasted for approximately a minute, after which there was a throaty cry of aggrieved desperation attended by an almost frightfully woeful silence.

Though Ed’s heart ached for shameful reasons of personal empathy and self-projection, he permitted Penguin entry with a stiff nod. He was certainly not in any position to deny the man what he so rightfully deserved, a delirious thirst for revenge setting his cold eyes alight with a blistering fire. Only a dim-witted fool with little sense of self-preservation or worth would deny that gaze the object of its desires, whatever that may be.

Presently, it was an overly-ambitious middle-aged man with enough vanity to poison a river and operating under the apparent assumption that he could murder the King of Gotham’s mother and get away with it. Self-assured speculation, Ed decided as he marched in after Penguin. Narcissism. What a way to go, digging one’s own grave with the rusted shovel of over-blown arrogance.

Ed found the ache in his heart rapidly dissipating at the sight of the man, his dark and trained features yielding little distress at the sight of a shotgun-wielding Penguin. And for all Ed stared, searching and critical, he couldn’t read a thing about the man through his eyes. Hard and impenetrable, like reinforced glass. Shallow and depraved. Fake.

Ed hated him for it.

“Mr. Mayor!” Penguin chirped, far too cheery for aiming a gun squarely at the Devil’s head. “How lovely it is to see you! Apologies for the abrupt entrance — I would have made an appointment if I’d thought you’d admit me.”

“Penguin,” the man returned, stone-cold and certain of his power, standing tall and proud, saying that name like it was his to utter — oh, how Ed  _ hated _ him for it. “You mustn’t make assumptions about my character. I would have been delighted to schedule a convention. It’s not every day you get to have a civilized conversation with a cockroach.”

If Ed’s hands were to begin bleeding from how tightly he was clenching them, he was certain he would not be surprised.

But Penguin did little more than chuckle, a dry, shrill sound that comforted Ed to not be on the receiving end of.

“I assure you,  _ Sir, _ it would be the farthest thing from civilized.”

“Oh,” Galavan sighed, shaking his head with all the condescension of paternal disappointment. “Of course. I forget who I’m talking to.”

There was poison in Ed’s veins, a burning, bubbling, boiling poison setting his limbs atremble, his eye twitching, his teeth clenching. There had never been such a barbaric desire to rip someone’s throat out with his teeth, tear them apart limb from limb with the powerful jaw evolution had deprived him of. Fuck the dream of glossy wings with which he could fly from the tempting pits of a fiery Hell, he wanted the venom of a cobra, the strength of an alligator, the speed of a cheetah. He would charge headfirst into the fire and brimstone if it meant he could strike the Devil with his fangs and watch him rot from the sheer power of his deathly rage.

He could be sick just from looking at the man.

“And this is…?” Galavan pried, gesturing half-heartedly to Ed’s trembling form.

“None of your concern,” Penguin deflected, stepping in front of Ed protectively, as if his small stature was sufficient enough to shield him from Galavan’s prying eyes.

The man merely hummed, narrowing his eyes at Ed before shrugging and turning to the sofa behind him. “Very well,” he sighed, lowering himself onto the cushions. “It’s like  _ that _ then. Strange, though — he doesn’t seem your type.”

There was poison in Penguin’s veins — that much, Ed could tell. From the way his spine stiffened straight and his hands tightened around the shotgun, Ed could practically  _ see _ his blood boiling. A familiar sensation, even in observation — that burning that settled in the pit of your stomach and set your mind ablaze with recklessly violent abandon. It was an epidemic, Ed wanted to say. A horrible illness that swelled in his skull until every object he saw was a viable weapon with which to bash the man’s skull in.

That vase, perhaps. Or that book. That paperweight looks adequate.

Or the butt of the shotgun Penguin was already driving into the side of Galavan’s head, sending him to the floor in a rag-doll heap of beatific unconsciousness.

“Unwise,” Ed observed plainly, stalking forward to deliver a swift kick to the man’s limp form. “Not that I’m complaining. Any plans to get him out of here?”

“Nothing short of manual labor, I’m afraid,” Penguin growled with a heaving sigh, propping the barrel of the shotgun along his shoulder. “It would be a shame to have come this far just to leave the game for the likes of  _ Jim Gordon, _ would it not?”

“That it certainly would,” Ed agreed with a tight smile, crouching down to gauge the strain of Galavan’s dead weight on his admittedly impotent arms. “And, if I know Jim, he will not let our absence go unconfronted for long.”

“We had better hurry, then,” Penguin added, glancing once over his shoulder to assure himself of their privacy before contributing his efforts to the endeavor.

The exertion of transporting Galavan from his penthouse to the car Penguin had fortunately stolen the keys for had, for the most part, kept their collective minds away from the fear of being caught. Anxiety was not something they could afford while heaving a body down a shady fire escape route, Ed felt. Shaky hands were too much of a risk.

It was, however, quite impossible to ignore the looming presence of Gordon, who Ed could practically  _ feel _ breathing down their necks the whole time: bounding up the stairs, charging down halls, calling for Penguin, calling for  _ Ed, _ threatening their mission, putting his own life at risk for the mere gratification of feeling as if he’d done  _ something _ to dissuade the King from another execution.

A lowly peasant had no right to such ambition, Ed thought with an inward growl.

The streets of Gotham were surprisingly vacant for the time of night as Ed single-handedly led them ever closer to their impending doom. On any other occasion, there might have been joy found in the lack of traffic, but with the omnipresent mask of Death looming above them in the starless shroud of night, Ed found himself longing for some extra form of company. Penguin, for all the delight he’d been the past weeks Ed had hosted him, was not a source of lively conversation when transporting a future murder victim to the scene of their future murder.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Penguin asked, speaking up as if just to disprove Ed’s silent analyses.

“I’ve been to the river before,” he said, grateful for the deviation from the oppressing silence that had settled upon the car. “I used to go there to think. I could see the mainland from there. It reminds me of home.”

“Of course,” the mobster said with a nod, shifting in his seat so that his body was more fully angled toward Ed. “I forget you’re not from Gotham.”

“An easy thing to forget, I’m sure,” Ed said as way of assurance, cutting his headlights and relying on the streetlamps the closer they grew to the shore.

“Do you miss it?”

“The mainland?”

“Your home,” Penguin clarified, turning his attentions to the darkened road before them, face washed in the pale light of the city.

It had never been something Ed had bothered considering, he found as he tracked Penguin’s gaze to the distant shadows of buildings, towering reminders of a life he’d had once and promptly abandoned with all the enthusiasm of a run-away teenager (which he supposed he had been, in retrospect, although not the kind to return after a night’s worth of strolling the streets and missing the warm comfort of his bed. Virtually welcoming accommodations would readily be traded for a life destitute of abuse any day).

One could miss it, he supposed. The mundanity of it all — the suburbs, the agreeable facade of the public school, the town-wide curfew Ed commonly paid little mind to for concern over his own personal, earlier, (and far stricter) curfew.

One could miss the gray skies every time you gazed out the window, living in the suffocating shadow of Gotham City, climbing to the widow’s watch of your perfectly pristine dollhouse of a home to gaze longingly into the horizon, glaringly bright no matter the time of day.

One could miss the rain cloud above your head no matter how brightly the sun may shine, the murals painted upon your skin to tell stories your mouth could not, to reek of cigarettes and liquors, to be confronted countless times by school officials to question the state of your dress and your overall physical health.

One could miss the sight of their parents’ faces, pallid and ghostly and so damn haunting that Ed still often awoke drenched in sweat and tears and spit and screaming to a God he knew would never answer because he never had before, so why now when he was free at last and spending every day face up in the downpour of Gotham City’s abysmal skies?

One could miss it, Ed supposed as he turned off the road and onto the rocks of the shore. One could miss it, and what a world that would be.

“I miss the colors,” he decided to reply, cutting the engine and not daring to look at Penguin. “The houses were always so bright. I could see stars in the sky. There were birds on my windowsills. I miss that.”

Penguin could allow him that, he hoped, letting his hands fall into his lap and sinking back into the chair. He could be allowed to miss that, at least.

And in spite of whatever silent pleas Ed had been sending to that oh so distant god of a religion he had yet to find, they returned once more to that horrid silence, a span of almost respectful quiescence punctuated only by the muffled thumping from the trunk — that hell of a reminder, that demon on his shoulder, that Devil that screamed and foamed and burned Ed’s mind with a trident of hellfire, filling his lungs with ash and his veins with molten magma from the depths of whatever unfathomable world of condemnation they had arisen from.

The embodiment of fate lay bound in their trunk, and all they could do was sit — how so peacefully, so blissfully untroubled, Ed hadn’t the faintest idea.

And the silence persisted, even as they clambered out of their respective seats into the cold, ruthless bite of the sea breeze, the icy chill of Death’s own breath battering their clothes and chilling their skin.

Only when they had rounded the back of the car and stood side by side staring down at the glossy finish of the trunk hood, did Penguin speak.

“If there were ever a time for you to leave, Ed, it’s now,” he said — so low, so soft that Ed might have missed it for all the cacophony of his own mind. “Forget me, my friend. You may have made a mistake, but you can move on. You don’t have to follow this path — in truth, I don’t believe  _ anyone _ does. I chose to for my own selfish reasons, and the consequences I shall suffer. Walk away,” he said once more, sterner, harder, eyes trained on that intangible destiny they were both plummeting headfirst into with all the reckless abandon of a suicide bomber. “Forget me.”

Before, all those years ago, such an opportunity had not been so freely presented to him, a choice of his own making, a fate of his own design. A decision he had not made before — to lose the closest thing to a friend he’d ever had — now laid bare and vulnerable before him, awaiting a verdict.

“No,” he said at last. Decisive. Simple. Firm, for all he the strength he could muster. Shock (or perhaps defiance) enough to oh so mercilessly rip the mobster from his trained stupor of exaggerated apathy.

“I’m a killer, Ed!” he cried for the gods to hear. “I’m a  _ monster!” _ (For the  _ Devil _ to hear). “I will not let you stay here because you feel so  _ obligated _ to and allow me to turn you into something you are  _ not!” _

“And that would be a monster, I’m assuming?” Ed riposted (say it louder, say it stronger —  _ curse the demon in my head). _ “Mr. Penguin,” he transitioned, opting for a slower start and softer tone. “I understand wanting to kill Galavan — he made you a  _ puppet. _ He  _ hurt _ you. No one’s actions are more justified than yours. But just because you endured that pain alone does not mean that you must avenge it that way. For weeks, it’s all you’ve talked about, and I  _ assisted _ you. We discussed it, we  _ planned _ it together. That makes me an accomplice.

“I’m already a criminal for harboring a fugitive, not to mention the murders I have already committed (mistakes or not). I hurt someone who did me no harm, Mr. Penguin; killing a swine that deserves it will not further my depravity.

“You fear you will be held accountable for the creation of yet another criminal in this city. Maybe you even fear losing me to that same darkness from which you know all too well there is no feasible escape. But this I must stress, Mr. Penguin —  _ this _ I must iterate: You cannot make me what I already am.”

“And that is a monster, I presume?” Penguin said softly, tone a match to Ed’s  _ (curse the demon in my head!) _ , cold eyes narrowed and sharp, like fissures in a glacier.

With a smile Ed knew was not as sincerely joyful as he had hoped it to be, he confirmed, “A monster,” and what a dreadful flood of relief he felt because of it. “A killer — just as you so called yourself. My inexperience does not make me any less of a guilty party, I’m afraid.”

And with that same smile painted on his face with horribly tacky acrylics of colors too bright for his own heart, he offered a hand, palm upturned to the rancorous obscurity of the sky.

“Through the valley of darkness, Mr. Penguin, we march side by side.”

“And who said that?” the mobster returned, eyeing Ed’s hand as if it were trap (as if he could ever — in any conceivable future —  _ dream _ of betraying this man). “You, I imagine?”

“Naturally,” Ed said with a wider grin, flexing his cold fingers in some parody of a beckon. “Humor me this once, and let me lead you into Hell.”

“What a dream,” Penguin hummed, smiling as if the very skies had parted in his favor, and taking Ed’s hand with no detectable ounce of hesitation.

To kill the Devil, Ed added to himself as the trunk was wrenched open, eyes falling once more on that horribly grave and proud face — paler than before, Ed cared to note with an ounce of gratification, and that was comfort enough as they wrestled him into a sitting position.

“Whoever you are,” Galavan began, eyes trained on Ed like he’d known him for years, eyes deep and dark and promising like the cryptic depths of the ocean, “I believe you are a man of conscience. You look wise — you look  _ good.  _ Gotham needs good people. You’ll regret this.”

He had a gift, Ed realized with a wave of almost nigh unbearable nausea. He could use his eyes to his favor, school them into different levels of sincerity, soften their facade into a glimpse of fanciful candor.

With a smile he could all but  _ taste _ the monstrosity of, Ed grabbed the man by his arms and heaved him onto the jagged gravel — because oh, Ed wanted to preach it to face of Death above them how much he  _ hated _ him for it.

“I have a lot of regrets, Mr. Mayor. How unfortunate it is for you that this won’t make the top of the list.”

And with the weight of the world on his shoulders and the Penguin by his side, he marched to the water’s edge, forcing their captive to his knees to study those stony features from a more convenient angle.

He truly was a monster — Ed could see that in the sculpture of his face. How easy it might be for someone to lose themselves to those eyes, he feared. And how easy it might have been for Ed to fall victim to their snare as well if it hadn’t been for the artificiality of his own eyes.

Ice to ice, glass to glass, hot on cold, and the glass would break. And there was fire in Ed’s skull and a bat in Penguin’s hand. Such hunger for destruction he’d never felt before, such blood-boiling hatred for the man. The Devil incarnate.

“Oh, well,” Galavan sighed, turning his face to the darkness above them, and some sadistic part of Ed just  _ hoped _ he was praying. “Here we are. Shame. It’s gonna be a beautiful morning.”

There is no beauty in Gotham City, Ed knew, and knew with firmer certainty when Penguin swung the bat into Galavan’s side, repeating the motion with steadily increasing aggression until Ed could hear bones cracking, ribs breaking, blood spilling from wounds on the off-chance the bat would break the skin.

A theatrical spectacle of agony, a blur of brown on the black of Galavan’s palette, a spray of red for their troubles, each drop spilt another reminder of why Ed was there, why his hands were burning and his head was throbbing and the world looked so bleak save for display immediately before him.

What colors would he paint the world?

Black, white, red, red, red, red red  _ red red— _

And there was ash in his lungs and magma in his veins and a trident of hellfire lodged so securely into his brain that all he could smell was sulfur and all he could see was  _ red _ and all he could taste or say or think was  _ more more more. _

And Galavan was pleading, Ed noticed, broken and bloody on the ground — pleading at last with eyes that  _ finally _ yielded something  _ real, _ something tangible beyond the world of manipulative delusions he’d been so skilled in crafting. In the depths of those eyes, the glass had broken, and all there was was a river of  _ fear. _

As Ed crouched down, Penguin so graciously relented, drawing back into the shadows to allow Ed the freedom to do what he so pleased — a gift from the King himself, and Ed would have bowed in thanks if he had the nerve.

“You don’t know me, Mayor Galavan,” he began, low and dark, a degree of malice he had never felt in himself before, “but I am  _ not _ James Gordon. And it’s nothing personal, of course, but I regret to inform you that you remind me of someone I wish I’d killed a very long time ago. So you can beg us all you want (and please do, Mr. Mayor, I’m  _ dying _ to hear it), but so long as you maintain that demonic visage, we will break you until Hell has nothing left to burn.”

He rose to his feet once more, proud and tall, looking down at that filthy, broken face and feeling deep in his chest that Galavan was at last where he was meant to be — bleeding to death at the feet of someone whose name he didn’t even know, painting the world with his tears and blood, so deep, so rich, so  _ red. _

And for all Ed searched, he could find no restraint or hesitation, no doubt in his heart as he drove his foot into that miserable face, crumbling the careful architecture of that marble nose and relishing that barbaric destruction of controversial art — for that’s all Ed knew he was, the dying man at his feet. All his composure and poise, pride and power all born of an act. It was  _ art. _

Art as much as the canvas at Ed’s mercy, pale and dark (white and black) spattered and sprayed and dripping red. Vibrancy upon a flat of monochrome perpetuity. Paint the skyline pink and red and watch it through the godforsaken shadows of the city. That was art.

“Firsts are always thrilling,” Penguin surmised, looking Ed up and down with all the sharp intent of a critic. “Anything else you’d like to try?”

The multitude of answers Ed had to that question felt most unreasonable, acid welling up his throat with venomous enthusiasm, and he hadn’t the mind to stunt the flow.

There was magma in his veins, burning his skin, propelling him forward.

“May I have the bat?” he said at last, a stranger to his own hoarse, gasping voice. It was very much like coming up for air, pulling himself from the glacial folds of obsidian water and turning his face to that sky so reflective in its onyx beauty and feeling safe at  _ last. _ It was indulgent, he knew. It was  _ greedy. _

And all Penguin gave him for it was a conspiratorial grin, a flash of recollection in those glassy eyes, a light shining through a tunnel of renowned desolation like he  _ knows _ the feeling. And Ed believes that wholeheartedly, taking the proffered weapon still glossy with blood, turning once more to evaluate their victim.

Broken and battered, defaced,  _ ruined. _ He was falling apart internally if the deformity to his upward-facing side were any indication. For all the time he’d spent a blood-sucking tyrant luxuriating in his skyscraper of bigoted preeminence, Ed felt this was  _ good _ for him. A taste of inferiority, forced empathy for those he crushed so cruelly under the heel of his gilded boot, a place at last Ed knew he  _ belonged. _ An immoral god damned to expiration by the hands of the King and a peasant. An inkblot of decisive finality Ed felt so impressively befitting for such a tale of barbarous malice.

A happy ending, for so short and few they come. A light at the end of the tunnel  _ (that _ old saying) — an oasis at last certain and tangible in the derelict dunes of life.

So beautiful that Ed was laughing, a shrill sound with all the force of thunder as he swung the bat, stroked the brush, painted the world and sang a song of such absolute elation to any imaginary being who cared to listen.

He gave the bat back eventually, though he hadn’t cared to pay mind as to  _ when. _ Penguin had some innate artistic ability, Ed noted, watching how he conducted his strokes with such professional certainty.

Ed henceforth had foregone the use of a brush and instead had opted to employ the precision of his hands, fingers that could dig and twist and break, nails that could scratch, fists that could beat and pound and conceive a piece of abstract beauty. And that’s what they had done,  _ together. _ Standing back to critique the product of their heated endeavors, Ed found there was no better word for it than  _ abstract. _ Abstruse, too, perhaps, he pondered, letting his eyes rove the jagged lines and edges. Unique, most certainly.

They were artists now, he thought with something like guilty pleasure, a sucker-punch to his stomach. Artists, as if that had always been his dream, the gravels at his feet slick with blood, his hands at last painted red — the color of his labors. What a world, he thought with a shake of his head, rapt as his tears cut pristine paths through the gore. What a world.

He was crying — he could feel that, that ache in his chest, that tightness in his throat, that swirling detail of purity to his shaky, bloody hands — but he felt no remorse, he found, glancing up once more to study their creation— 

Oh, Hell, a creation! It was a  _ corpse _ .

—to study that  _ corpse, _ that mangled remnant of what once was a man — nevertheless what a man it might have been, Satan himself or the like, it was once a  _ human,  _ now unrecognizable for their  _ artistic nature. _ Artists indeed,  _ criminals _ moreover, furthered by the sound of sirens in the distance, sharp and deafening and  _ distinct _ even through the drone of the city.

I am a killer, and could I at last be free? he pondered in the solitude of peaceful reticence. Am I worthy now for you creatures of the sky, wearing your hearts on your sleeves, ready to bear the secrets you tempt me with through song? Am I stronger now? Am I valuable now, Mr. Nashton? Am I a hero now, like Jim Gordon?

Am I a hero now?

He turned to look at Penguin, who was lingering behind, and even through his watery eyes, he saw that the mobster looked distraught as well. It wasn’t guilt, of course not, that much Ed  _ knew. _ You cannot regret ridding the world of what had no value — you cannot miss what you have never loved. Looking at Penguin, Ed believed that.

It wasn’t guilt, it was  _ terror,  _ blinding fear burning even brighter in the wake of the approaching sirens, that impending cry of destiny, pulling Ed’s heart from his chest and forcing tears from his eyes.

“Are we going to die?” he asked shakily (though dreading the answer), hands frozen in front of him, chilled to their very bones, mind numb and filled with a snowy static that seemed to weep on its own, sing its own song of sorrow.

Penguin met his eyes for that — hollow, distant,  _ fake  _ — and shook his head stiffly. “I don’t know,” he answered (and oh, how Ed had  _ dreaded _ it), stumbling forward down the gravel to stand at Ed’s side. “They…have a death sentence. Maybe we’ll get prison. Likely we’ll get Arkham.” He glanced up at Ed, blurry through his tears, his face awash in alternating red and blue. “Are you scared?”

And with nothing in his head save for that damned melody of echoing sorrow, Ed couldn’t even begin to deny it, lips quivering and tears burning down his cold cheeks. “I’ve never been to prison,” he said simply, like it wasn’t a given, voice cracking like shattering glass, chest heaving with a shuddering sob. “I don’t want to go to Arkham.”

“I’m scared too,” Penguin admitted, tugging on Ed’s elbow and pulling him around to face him. Ed knew if it weren’t for the tears in the mobster’s eyes — the glittering trails of those previously shed on his cheeks — he wouldn’t have believed him. “I told you to leave.”

“I couldn’t,” Ed said with a shake of his head that rattled his teeth, pulling his glasses off to grind the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’d left before and that cost me a friend, I couldn’t…I  _ can’t _ lose you again—”

“This is about before?” Penguin guessed (curse that perception), squeezing Ed’s arms with a vice grip he’d only ever used on his enemies and staring into his eyes like he could find the  _ world _ in there. “Are you finally going to tell me what that was about? What transpired between us in that  _ past _ I don’t remember?”

Of course, Ed wanted to say, wanted to cry on his knees. Of course I will, because why wouldn’t he? Why hadn’t he before? Such a trivial thing, that childhood, inconsequential when it came to the inevitability of their doom, the sky still looming over them, that omen Ed knew he should have heeded. A confession of past identities, a name branded on his skin he prayed would disappear with relocation, the recollection of a few minutes that had become his only refuge when his father had felt that nigh daily need to paint the canvas of Ed’s skin with blue and black — the colors of his rotting soul.

Everything they’d done, everything they’d gone through, standing here now, why wouldn’t Ed share that?

And he did, so slowly, gently — it was poetry, he felt. Art of the utmost grandeur. It must be handled with care, a dying bird cradled in his palms.

“We were just kids,” he said, wiping tears from his face. “I remember  _ everything  _ — I never could have forgotten it. I was six. You were seven. I…saw you. In a schoolyard. You were bleeding. A-And I decided (because I assume  _ everything) _ that I could help. I…I told you to tilt your head forward, to not let the blood get into your throat. I ruined your shirt — tore a piece of it off to wipe it away.” (Such a fragile, broken bird). Take care of it, Ed reminded himself, though he could see its feathers begin to flame with every minute shift of Penguin’s expression. (Hold it gently, just so, stroke it, kindle it, let it  _ fly). _

“You told me I had eyes like chocolate,” Ed gasped, as breathless as he was through the sobs. “I never really liked chocolate.”

And could it be a  _ true _ possibility, Ed wondered, that the world  _ could _ be found in his eyes? For there was such an expression melting the ice of Penguin’s characteristic disposition, a look in his eyes that almost made them come alive, bright and glittering and searching and  _ deep, _ as if they had a soul to show off yet.

It wasn’t the power of full remembrance as Ed had so faintly hoped it to be — it was uncertain, almost, hesitant and shifting as if Penguin couldn’t trust himself to believe in something as intangible as a  _ memory. _ But the strength of that gaze grew even still, blooming into prominence as the mobster dared to reach up (hoping for nothing more than a gentle caress — memories were like daggers: they could cut, Ed reminded himself with an involuntary twitch of his scarred cheek) and cupped the sides of Ed’s face, staring so deeply into his eyes Ed feared he might see something there that could never be taken back.

And maybe Penguin saw the  _ world _ there, for with a shuddering sob he shook his head and breathed out, “Ed?”

(Such a strong, fiery bird). A phoenix, Ed realized, opening his hands to let it free into a world where it would have secrets so rich and divine and not a  _ soul _ would ever hear them.

Ed could have screamed, cried out after that phoenix with a parting wish for it to pass on his gratitude to God in Heaven, sat beyond that veil of Death that loomed over Gotham like a curse. He could have screamed, but he didn’t, whispering instead, “Oswald,” like it was a prayer itself.

And the mobster hugged him, haltingly, shakily, like he wasn’t sure how. Like he didn’t trust his hands to do the right thing. Like the blood on them was physical, colorful hex damning him to a world of violence, one where he could not comprehend the gentility appropriate for such an embrace.

Placing his own shaky, gory hands on Penguin’s back, soiling the gorgeous, vivid fabric of his coat, Ed found he felt much the same.

The mark of a killer was a bright, burning, tacky one, colors that branded his skin, toughened his hands, and hardened his resolve. Even in the midst of their embrace, he could imagine himself forgetting how to conduct such affections. Such a soft approach, exemplary of sincere adoration, had no right being performed by a man such as Ed. And yet with the warmth of another person against his front, another heart and the swell of lungs filling with each of Penguin’s starving, shuddering breaths against his chest, Ed could not fathom pulling away.

So he tugged him closer, hugged him harder, felt his sobbing breaths and answered with his own, burying his face in the Penguin’s inky, wind-blown hair.

And though the icy gust of Death was still gnawing his skin off, Ed couldn’t find it in himself to mind. Even when those sirens were so loud he thought his head might explode, even with the sound of tires screeching onto the harbor and guns being raised in their direction audible over the boom of Captain Barnes’ voice, Ed stayed where he was. He didn’t  _ care. _ Because for the first time in his life, no matter how many times he’d dared to dream of it, he had Oswald Cobblepot in his arms, and he in Oswald’s. And they were laughing.

And turning his face once more to that shroud of twilight above them, Ed could say he saw a star. And what a beautiful world it was.


	6. Tell Me Again, I'm Losing Your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So this is Christmas, and what have we done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for this chapter!! Includes mental instability, catatonic/fugue states, direct references to past child abuse, referenced homophobia/homophobic slurs, and implied (canon) psychological torture.**
> 
> Last chapter was uploaded last _decade,_ how crazy is that??
> 
> When I finished editing this, I was so _done_ with it I felt sick pfft.
> 
> I wanted this up on Christmas day, actually, but obviously, _that_ didn't happen. I then wanted it up on New Year's day, but my computer kept crashing every time I tried to write. Probably something to do with my grandma's wifi. dunno.
> 
> Here it is, though! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, have some angst.

“Help me remember,” Oswald would say, lying next to Ed in the blanket of night, quiet for privacy, breathy for a stab to Ed’s heart. Help me remember. Tell me again.

And Ed always would (for how could he not?), turning on his side despite the limited space of the stiff, bony Arkham mattress. He’d lay and he’d preach — as well as he could — paint pictures on the ceiling of a life long since lived, vivid in color and imagery, accurate to every detail, to every blade of grass. Lively and joyful. Painted in colors Ed could hardly comprehend.

“Help me remember,” Oswald would say, turning on his side to study Ed’s eyes without the barrier of prescription glass, searching them for all they were worth, milking them dry of all they could give (I haven’t much soul, please be careful).

Help me remember. Tell me again.

And without mind for convenience or instance, Ed always would — letting him search, letting him feel, letting him touch until tears were slipping from those sharp, icy eyes and adding another ounce of worth to the rock-hard pillow Ed would lay on at night.

Help me remember. Tell me again.

There were times when Oswald wouldn’t say that, Ed digressed. Times they could see each other without their cloak of secrecy, surreptitious tip-toes through the merciless cold of the Arkham halls. There were times when there was light, bright beams of it streaming through the barred windows; a warm, brilliant blessing for the gloom of Gotham.

There were times when they’d sing, dancing along the length of the rec room like they hadn’t a care for the depraved stares of onlookers (homicidal maniacs, eyeing them down with a sense of appalled fascination) like they could go on singing and dancing and _ laughing _ for as long as they pleased.

Ed liked those times, the weight of Oswald’s hand in his, the breeze of momentum pushing his curly hair away from his face as they spun and twirled and choreographed a dance from the very depths of their bruised and battered but _ beating _ and beautiful hearts.

And they’d sing, as they were, chest to chest and swaying in the sunlight, admiring the youth of the other’s bruised and bloodied face, the spark in the other’s swollen and weeping eyes, the pure melodic beauty of the other’s honey-thick laughter.

They’d sing and they’d dance and they’d rarely eat save for the days they were too starved to stand — sing and dance until the guards pulled them apart for creating a scene (and what a beautiful scene it was — but you damn happiness, don’t you?). Sing and dance to the encouraging sounds of manic laughter, echoing off the bleeding walls and filling Ed’s mind with a sound beyond the repressed screams of his split psyche. It was music, Ed knew. It was beautiful.

Ed liked those times.

They’d rarely get visitors, which came as something of a disappointment though Ed was hardly sure as to _ why. _ He never expected anyone beyond the company in close quarters (and truly, whose was more valuable?), and even if he were to have someone on the outside whose presence he might await, they were given limited time for social interaction — courtesy of Oswald’s notorious skills of manipulation and Ed’s duly noted “sensitivity,” as they called it.

_ Psychopath, _Ed’s damned brain supplied so helpfully. At least the doctor was bright enough to realize how inaccurate of an assessment that was. He could be grateful for that, Ed supposed, grinning toothily at the darkness in his mind. At least someone knows that’s not true.

The sole doctor — whose name was Strange — was rarely personally encountered, as well. He’d greeted Ed upon admission, welcomed him to the facility with tight-lipped smiles and promises of recuperative therapy, and hardly made himself known since then. He had a sort of unorthodox fascination with Ed, he dared (and feared) to think. That better suited for a scientist and his hitherto undiscovered specimen. He recognized Ed’s intelligence, for as much as that counted. That was a plus, of course, and compensation perhaps for the looks he’d give Ed. Condescending at _ best, _ Ed observed.

Predatory at worst.

Oswald, on the other hand, inspired a different sort of fascination. The kind to introduce _ consultations _ every other day, ambitious diagnoses and presumptuous conclusions that left Oswald frazzled and trembling when he snuck to Ed’s room with the aid of his corrupt guard, slipping into Ed’s bed and under his skin (burrowing, searching, his _ home) _ with a whimper and a tremulous, “Tell me again.”

And Ed would, for he felt it was his sole obligation in that frigid Hell to turn on his side and tell once more the story he’d detailed three dozen times before. But Ed didn’t mind, for he never thought to care for the hour or the rest he maybe ought to be seeking. He would tell the story a hundred times over if it eased Oswald’s mind and calmed his heart as Ed so hoped it did.

There was never hesitation, and there was never any doubt. Just the vivid paint from the palette of Ed’s eidetic memory, thick on his fingers as he trailed them across the ceiling, a mural of a life sorely missed.

Another tally mark to the wall behind his bed. More tears to his pillow. More warmth by his side. Pure joy in his aching heart.

Beauty, Ed designated it. Serenity. Domestic tranquility, for all they were worth. They were accurate, he supposed, but just short of _ right. _ This side of _ perfect. _ Alternate routes to skirt around the heart of the truth, for Ed doubted he could admit it to himself quite yet.

Beauty, he designated it.

_ (It was a day of dancing. Joy and laughter, holding one another’s hands with all the light and limp care of grace and grandeur, pretention they could hardly afford. Ed would always lead the dance. Oswald could start the song. Iterations of ‘Chiquitita’ filling their ears, directing their smiles.) _

“Help me remember,” Oswald said, lying next to Ed in the blanket of night and staring up at the stale traces of last night’s painting. “Tell me again.”

Ed turned on his side despite the limited space of the stiff, bony mattress, and settled into a somewhat comfortable position before huffing out a laugh, smiling at Oswald’s pale profile.

“I think you should know it by now,” he hummed playfully, looping his hand through Oswald’s arm in a futile search for some warmth. “We’ve been here for six weeks. I’d rather _ you _ tell it to _ me.” _

(Paint it for me, Ed wanted to say. It may not be as colorful, but it will be true, and that will be enough.)

Oswald shook his head nevertheless, a movement hardly noticeable for the utter depth of darkness that enveloped them. “How could you remember that? _ All _of that, like it happened yesterday?” he asked softly, fond disbelief lacing his breath.

How indeed, Ed thought with a sigh. He wondered the same from time to time, turning himself inside out to gaze upon his heart and mind and wonder just _ how _ and _ why _ he had fought tooth and nail (lost blood and sleep) to retain something so trivial. The answer was often simple, and Ed lamented that fact. It was plain and _ true. _

“Maybe, for me, it did,” he answered with a half-hearted shrug, an action that made his bones creak in the cold and his muscles ache with disuse. “The days since then might as well have not even existed at all. My entire childhood revolved around that one day for as long as I can remember. It was a solitude, of sorts. A sanctuary in my own mind — shocking, I know,” he admitted with a dry chuckle, raking his fingers through the thick curls adorning his head. “What a Hell it’s a become.”

“Not Hell enough, though,” Oswald countered vaguely, shifting so that he was facing Ed, hand coming up to mimic Ed’s movements. (The steely glint of his hardened eyes was lost to the valley of shadows between them, which was cause enough for outrage, for Ed would have given an arm and a leg to study them at that moment). “It still retained the memory, which is mercy enough. My own mind seems crueller than yours on that account.”

“Perhaps,” Ed hummed, permitting such a merciful evaluation only if it were to come from Oswald’s lips. “I honestly doubt that I _ could _ have forgotten it. It was something…vitally important to me. It meant worlds to me as I grew up, and even still held value when I started working at the GCPD. I think the thrill of the job tramped it down, however,” he added with something reminiscent of an apology. “Put it off my mind until I saw you again.”

“The same was true for me, I think,” Oswald contributed, his tone so low and breathy Ed could have convinced himself he’d imagined it. “It meant something to me — something I can’t exactly…recall, but something I can still feel. 

“I kept the shirt you gave me. Slept with it like a blanket. And the bloody scrap of my own shirt that you tore off.” Oswald chuckled at that memory, his own personal painting. “They were mementos, of a sort. Held such _ power, _ I’m sure a more superstitious person would tell you. I kept them to remember you by, and yet I still forgot. I think to save myself the pain, I _ made _ myself forget.” He turned to Ed at that, a flame of self-loathing burning deep through the glass of his eyes. “Because you didn’t come back,” he added, breathy and hesitant, a spear to Ed’s heart that pierced straight through, rough and jagged and _ painful. _ “Why didn’t you come back?”

For all the darkness in the room, Ed supposed he should have felt safe, for as loosely as he could use the term. Safe from Oswald’s prying eyes, safe from the scalding light making known all those waxy vulnerabilities that littered his bare body. Here, in the cold and the night and the ghastly sanctuary of an Arkham cell, he wasn’t bare at all.

But there was a depth to Oswald’s eyes that was unsettling, to say the least. Something in them stone-cold and dead, a seed of imminent decay. He was dying. He was vulnerable. Of all the things Ed owed the man, he supposed a return of weakness was the least of his worries.

“My father,” Ed began, the words a blade with which he was skinning himself, laying his heart bare for judgement. “When he…When he came back to the hotel, he saw how happy I was and asked me…what was wrong with me. I told him I was going to marry the boy I’d just met in the schoolyard.” He left a pause there, allowed it to build suspense for the sake of lending him time to stamp down his own embarrassing fear. “He knocked out one of my teeth.”

Oswald sucked in a breath, sharp and shallow, eyes flickering with murderous intent. Flickering, Ed stressed to himself. Not flaming, as they might have once.

“Ed…”

“Don’t say anything about killing him,” Ed warned, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder in the direction of the guard outside. “We don’t need to give them further incentive.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? _ Before?” _

“Why didn’t I tell you any of this?” Ed countered, genuinely wondering for himself. “I tried, once. It didn’t exactly…end as planned.”

With the prompted recollection, Oswald’s face fell, that faint spark of life it seemed he had enough will to cling to fading away to a remorseful cloud of fog, glassing over his eyes and rendering him eerily similar to an antique doll. They always looked so distraught — scarred, perhaps, by something they’d seen, empty and desolate inside. What could scar a doll, Ed didn’t bother wondering. He’d always hated them nevertheless.

Oswald reached up between them, a soft and slow movement, chivalrous and allowing Ed time to deny the gesture before he settled his palm against Ed’s cheek and ran his thumb along the scar. His touch was warm, Ed noted — dissimilar to every frame of reference he had of past touches.

The thought shouldn’t have been unsettling.

“I am sorry for this,” Oswald said slowly, intently, a repeat of past apologies but somehow with an underlight of stronger sincerity, an earnest fire that warmed Ed deep into his core with a fiery pang.

He was prepared to pardon it (as he always did) when Oswald moved once more, rising up just slightly and leaning closer until his lips met the soft of Ed’s cheek, mouthing along his scar in a feather-light brush that coiled Ed’s insides into a fierce and impenetrable knot.

“O-Oswald,” he stuttered out, cursed for his inarticulacy, trying to express something he supposed might have been a warning — for what danger, he wasn’t sure, but the beat of his heart was rabbitting so distinctly against his ribs that he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Oswald heeded the caution nevertheless, ending the spontaneous affection with a soft kiss to the jut of Ed’s cheekbone and settling himself back onto the bed, eyes dark and twinkling, coruscating beauty with some light and power Ed might have understood on a deeper and stronger level had he not looked away for fear of losing his mind (or returning the affections tenfold).

Oswald sighed softly, reluctant, so it seemed, to cease touching Ed’s face, fingers still gliding along that stretch of dead tissue with careful reverence. “Forgive me,” he said breathily. An apology without a crime.

“Of course.”

Beauty, Ed told himself. Serenity.

_(There came a time, as Ed had feared, that Oswald was going to ask questions. “Told your father you were going to marry me?” “We made a promise,” Ed said. Oswald smiled. “I’m flattered you remember.” Edward stared. _“You_ remember that?”_ _Oswald didn’t reply, letting the night and the cold and that secret special slip of warmth they held between each other swallow his reply with a smug grin that flushed Ed’s skin. They slept well that night.)_

The first time they didn’t dance through lunch was after one of Oswald’s regularly scheduled appointments with Strange. He’d come back _ smiling _(sick and pale, bright and beaming with artificial light), which was a reaction eerily uncharacteristic enough to send waves of icy anxiety pulsing over Ed’s stone-cold heart.

Oswald had settled down with his lunch (sick and pale, but _ eating _ — they rarely ate), and beckoned Ed over with an energetic wave and a soft curl of his finger — a gesture that might have been filthily charming if set in brighter circumstances.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Ed,” Oswald explained with a soft laugh as Ed shakily took his seat. “Our appointment today dragged on longer than we were expecting. I hope you don’t mind.”

Mind as he might (and oh, he _ might)__,_ Ed could reply with nothing more than a shake of his head, pitiful and distinctly disrespectful when addressing the Penguin _ (had _ he been addressing the Penguin — **_use your eyes, Eddie_**_). _

He brushed the thought away. Collected himself. Studied Oswald’s misty eyes and sluggish movements with a frightful choking sensation and dizzying worry.

“What did they give you?” he asked roughly, all care for pleasantries and ceremony mercilessly disregarded in light of this…_ drastic _ shift in demeanor.

Oswald remained unfazed, as he was, picking apart his lunch with a plastic spoon and shrugging noncommittally. As if he weren’t bothered. As if he didn’t notice.

“I’m not sure,” he said, and with his ear sharpened and interest piqued, even his _ voice _ sounded different to Ed. “Are you going to eat?” Oswald asked offhandedly, eyeing the empty space before Ed with something like a _ dramatization _ of concern. Like he had to pretend.

Ed shook his head again.

“Do you want some of mine?” Oswald suggested instead, brightening again like the flick of a switch. Drawing the curtain back and setting the stage. “I’m not really that hungry.”

“No, Oswald,” Ed said (even the name was sacrilege upon his tongue), turning and regarding the open floor of the rec room with a sort of mournful reverence. It was a space that had remained respectfully cleared since their third show of dancing, now laid barren and unused.

“Are you sure? You look kind of down. Maybe it’s your blood sugar?”

Ed cut his eyes back to Oswald, scratching faintly at the table and gritting his teeth. He hadn’t the time for this. Hadn’t the _ heart. _ “Did Strange tell you that?”

Oswald cocked his head and beamed once more (the fronts are too bright, the stage is washed — close the curtain, cut the lights. Ed wanted the recesses. Blue downs). “How did you know that?” he asked, laughing giddily.

Ed offered a tight smile, bitter reassurance. Shook his head again. Omitted speech altogether henceforth, sitting silently nearest the wall and waiting to be taken back to his cell. He could lay there in silence for a while, he hoped; stare at their mural. Pick it apart piece by piece and relive the memory once more, awaiting Oswald’s arrival and praying (for all he could) that those infernal drugs might’ve worn off.

Time passes. Seasons change. Oswald didn’t come. Day slipped into night and the sun retired to the horizon, and Oswald didn’t come. Not even when the moon was high in the sky, hardly visible for her dress of smoky clouds. There was still light in his room, however — some stray beams slipping through that gauzy gown. Merciful, Ed thought, gazing into the lit corner.

But mercy was a farce and light was an illusion (how could there be light in that Hell? Darkness there and nothing more. **_Look at me, Eddie_**_)._

He hid instead, rolling onto his side and burying his face into that stony pillow — precaution to protect his whirring and splitting skull from the shadow standing so distinct and statuesque in the pale light of the moon. Tall and so agonizingly sure of itself. Chiseling words into his bones.

Ed could feel its laughter bleed down his spine.

_ (He would see Oswald again, of course. Partners in crime, roommates in Hell. He was always happy, as he’d been that day. But Ed could see the sickness moving through his body, from his eyes to his ears, sticking thorns in his tongue, weaving roots into his knuckles. He hardly ate anymore. Ed feared it not to be a sign of the times.) _

“Help me remember,” Oswald would say, lying next to Ed in the blanket of night, predictable for a sense of security. Reliable for what scraps of sanity they could find.

Help me remember. Tell me again.

And Ed always would (for how could he not?), turning on his side despite the limited space of the stiff, bony Arkham mattress. If not born to kill, then Ed was born to tell a story, to paint the ceiling of a cathedral with his own internalized depictions of the world and its wonders, cities in clouds and whatever beneath (Vegas, his father often told him). But there would be no cherubs born of his brush, he feared, for the world was never angelic nor as innocent as a child. But it would be colorful. And it would be true. That much, he hoped, people could enjoy. An acquired taste, needless to say.

Their nights spent together were the only thing Ed found he could truly rely on, the only consistency so anxiously anticipated in the grayscale Hell they’d found themselves in (not as fun as Vegas — Ed speculated, of course). He’d hoped it had been a mutual sort of dependency — I need you as much as you need me. That was all he had.

And that much, as minuscule as it may be, was so cruelly taken away from him when Oswald didn’t visit one night. Or the next night. By the third, Ed was beyond terrified, shaking in his cell (for once not because of the cold).

When Oswald’s corrupt guard passed by with a fleeting glance and a nod of his head to ask if Ed was all right (I’d bless your soul if I thought you had one), Ed beckoned him closer and whispered his demands: To see Oswald, no matter the cost (however preferably soon).

The next night, thank God (bless your devotion), his demands were met, being guided down the hall by that same man to Oswald’s distant cell and permitted entry with a sort of sad smile, half-concealed by the shadows of Arkham’s soul. An omen. Edward feared it.

Oswald’s cell was no warmer than Ed’s (and maybe even colder — ** _look at our breath_**_) _ but seemingly darker. Emptier. Sadder. And in the corner there was Oswald, arms crossed and staring blankly out the window.

Another omen he should have heeded. Fear.

He approached him, of course, though with all the halting care of one approaching a fawn, gaining confidence (for however he might be able to use such a word in such a context) when at last he stood at Oswald’s side to find him — for want of a better term — _ catatonic. _

And oh, what ugly fear it was.

Where could one start with such a creature, broken and lost, gutted and _ disgraced _ and cast aside a shell of a former _ beauty? _ Ed’s mind wasn’t working, which was torture in and of itself, and to compensate he resorted to touching. Hesitation there, of course, but the best he could do with short notice.

What more could be done than to hold him, touch him and dread the contact? For it would mean this was real, and that embodiment of torture was a tangible, living being (as loosely as one could use the term — ** _I’ve never seen deader eyes_**_). _

And Edward did just that — with tears in his eyes for it — pulling the cold, fragile man into his arms and burying in his unruly hair (it was perhaps too long for Oswald’s own good now but useful still to hide those horribly vacant eyes from Ed’s view).

Oswald would lie next to him in the blanket of night, quiet for privacy, predictable for a sense of security. Familiarity in foreign surroundings. Brightness in that all-encompassing and smothering blackness. The only warmth in the building. He would turn on his side sometimes (when his leg could manage the strain) and smile at Ed, touch him just to touch. Always the same.

“Help me remember,” Ed said breathily, shallow and uncertain, as loud as his throat could manage to fill the silence the night inscribed. “Tell me.”

He took Oswald’s hands into his (artists accept assistance — this one had no choice), guiding the uncannily soft pads of his fingers to the rough cut of the wall and around in swirling shapes and distinct patterns, the best he could manage with a brush that was not his own.

Paint it for me, Ed said, rapt as the mural took life in the red of Oswald’s blood. It won’t be as colorful, but it will be true, and that is enough. Dangerous, I know, he thought, pulling Oswald’s hand back to wipe the blood from his skin. But such is art.

Oswald didn’t flinch.

Ed turned instead to the window, which those damned eyes of Oswald’s were so locked upon, examining the outside world with a distinct sense of loathing, narrowing his eyes at the moving cars and the distant city lights and the taunting form of the moon hanging above them, so free and beautiful for it. The pale face of one fair lady Ed had so entrusted with his pain and sorrows and truly — with all childish qualities disregarded for the sake of one’s dignity — one Ed had trusted as a friend.

Now, it seemed, as he gazed upon it once more with all the sorrow of the world cradled in his arms, he found it doomed to gaze back upon him with nothing more than cavalier disdain. How painfully appropriate.

White was a color often chosen to depict purity and goodwill. Ed, for all his God-given intelligence, disagreed with that notion. Colors were colors, wielded by man, and twisted to conform to stereotypes in which they could never fit.

But such is art.

The world outside was white, blanketed in snow, harshly split between ground and sky, the horizon a blurry blend of the two — Ed couldn’t help but think of a Yin-Yang.

It was nearing Christmas, he presumed, if one were to judge by the obsessive tally marks on his walls and the date they were committed. December the 19th — around the corner awaited sleds and reindeer, trees of presents and tales of a jolly saint; doctrines of good and bad, treat and punishment.

Ed never got what he wanted for Christmas.

This one, it seemed, was fated to be the same way. Condemnation was punishment enough, but of course, the Hell of a world that lay beyond the walls of their purgatory could never be so kind as to leave it at that. The best present he could have asked for now lay torn apart and haphazardly put back together, broken down and useless in his arms. A Merry Christmas to all.

He never cared to ask if Oswald had an opinion on Christmas — whether he favored it or not. He understood, of course, that it was possible to enjoy the damned holiday, and he supposed the same might be attainable for him if he could spend it one year in the company of someone who cared (or someone _ at all, _ even more so). He had at least that, he supposed, brushing Oswald’s fringe out of his face. He could be thankful for that.

“Do you like Christmas music?” he asked, quieter than before, as silent as that so distant city (or maybe he’d just grown deaf from the screams). I never really enjoyed it. Forced down my throat, you understand.

He could sing, he supposed — they’d done it before. And they’d missed it recently (a crime not gone unpunished by their adamant audience).

_ (_**_You always did like the theatre, didn’t you, Eddie? Daddy never let you, though. Theatre is for fags, isn’t that what he used to say? But you can sing _ ** — ** _you’re a good singer, Eddie. Sing for us._**_) _

He did, if for nothing else than to beat that voice to death with the volume of his own.

“So this is Christmas,” he intoned, as shaky as the arms wrapped around Oswald’s stiff form, voice as cold as the ice on the windows. “And what have you done?”

_(“Another year over, and a new one just begun. And so this is Christmas —_ _I hope you have fun. The near and the dear one, the old and the young. A very Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. Let’s hope it’s a good one without any fear.”)_

They never got visitors due to the doctors’ set prohibitions. It was a fact of life Ed had finally come to accept, a degree of further separation from the city outside, a life they’d likely ruined for themselves given their incarceration. What good were you to anyone if you were no good to yourself? Something like that. Ed couldn’t keep up with all the medically contradictory philosophy those “doctors” and nurses spewed.

They were alone in Arkham — _ that _ was the state of life Ed saw scrawled on the walls in every chipped stone and scratched plaster and nondescript stain. In posters of encouragement hung in special rooms and yellowed with age. They’d probably been there before the renovation — if it could have even been called that.

Seclusion was a lifestyle, and though perhaps one Ed might have seen the appeal of in the past, it was now one he despised with every ounce of life he had left in his body. So there was (despite all Ed tried to dismiss it) a distinct wave of gratitude when there came the appearance of James Gordon. A sort of spine-tingling shock as well, a pit of disbelief raw in Ed’s heart — a Christmas miracle, he might have called it had he believed in such a thing.

Oswald was summoned to the visitation room first, staggering stiff and hazy-eyed through the dreary halls like he hadn’t the mind to see or _ care _ where he was or what was happening. The saddest fact was, Ed thought as he watched him go by with tears in his throat and sorrowful howls in his head, it was perhaps _ true. _All value for life and care for its proceedings had been expelled from Oswald’s mind and heart and soul alike to make room for that virulent placidity. He could be the poster-child for Arkham’s therapy, Ed remarked with a scoff. Maybe that would alert the GCPD.

Oswald’s meeting with the detective lasted no longer than three minutes. Ed was counting.

He was summoned next, as was expected and anticipated to a degree. It was a part of Arkham Ed had yet to see — the closest thing he would get to an _ adventure _ for the foreseeable future.

Gordon greeted him with little more than a sigh of his name (ever one for _ formalities), _ and Ed took his seat across the table with his own icy silence upon his lips (ever one for maintaining grudges — or the appearance of ones, at least).

“I suppose,” Gordon started with a grunt, “I should wish you a Merry Christmas.”

“Every idiot who goes about with a ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart,” Ed recited, cold and impassive. The merry words of Charles Dickens could conduct the proceeding conversation, Ed decided. He could lay his life in the hands of a nineteenth-century author — they’d do better with it than he ever could.

Gordon’s eyes softened somewhat disarmingly, a drop of his guard that Ed would have _ never _ expected. “Humbug to you, too,” he replied breezily, daring a smile. Ed wanted to laugh and wished he could.

“This hardly seems your _ place _ this time of year,” he said instead, folding his arms and leaning forward on the table. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk,” Gordon explained with a heavy sigh. “I guess I believe no one should be alone on Christmas.”

“And you think your company is suitable compensation?” Ed quipped, cocking his head to the side and squinting, hoping to implant at least a _ seed _ of doubt in Gordon’s mind.

He didn’t even flinch. “I’m trying to help, Ed.”

_ “Yes,” _ Ed groaned, pulling back into his chair, “you’re doing a truly _ spectacular _ job so far. Did you even _ see _ Oswald?”

The tension was broken at that, Jim’s expression falling with something like _disappointment _— like he’d been hoping to overlook it. “So you know.”

“Of course I know!” Ed hissed, lunging forward once more, a spiteful, gnawing _ beast _ inside of him lashing out with venom-tipped claws. “I’ve spent every night with him for the past _ month. _ I’ve _ watched _ them suck the life out of him! They’re torturing him — they’re _ killing _ him!”

“They’re trying to help him,” Jim said lowly, face eerily blank and cold, a mask of steely assurance to encase and _ erase _ all personal uncertainty (of which Ed assumed there must be a _ lot _ — no man or beast could every truly convince themselves that brutish torment was _ therapy). _

“Like _ you?” _ Ed snapped, gritting his teeth, clenching them and _ daring _ them to break — maybe it would be a viable enough excuse to have him escorted to the infirmary and _ away from here. _ A blissful escape (what cost were teeth, anyway?) “You have no right to be here, Jim,” he said instead, saving the possibility of breaking teeth for a more _ dire _ situation — he was a man of reason, after all. “Thank you for visiting. You can leave now.”

It left silence between them, so very unbearably cold and stale, like the musty air of catacombs. Life was banned in these walls, it appeared. Ed understood that, at least.

“What about you?” Jim asked vaguely, shattering that illusion of mortal peace, keeping his eyes firmly locked on Ed despite his exaggerated disinterest. “Are they ‘torturing’ you?”

“They haven’t touched me,” he admitted with a growl, somehow hating that fact more than he felt he should. A part of him wished they _ had _ subjected him to some similar grade of _ recuperation. _

Jim cocked his head to the side — a question — eyes glinting curiously in the pale light. “What do you mean?”

“I saw Strange once,” Ed conceded to elaborate, eye twitching faintly with ire for Jim’s persistent density, “when I was first admitted. I’ve seen him in the halls, and occasionally when he’s come to get Oswald. I’ve held fruitless _one-sided_ conversations with him.” He steadied his gaze, a work of the heart, locking it with Jim’s. “I don’t receive any therapy. The nurses never talk to me. It’s like I’m a ghost.” Like I’m _not real,_ he added to himself, but cut it down just as quickly — never the time for existential crises.

_(_**_Or perhaps no better time_**_) _ — a distinct, sharp hint of some thought passing the detective’s face, a theory Ed almost _ feared. _

“Maybe,” he began softly, treading tender ground, “you’re not supposed to be here.” Grinned just slightly, quirked his brow like he was challenging Ed to contradict him.

He didn’t need this. _ Hadn’t the heart. _ “Oh, that’s _ rich, _ Jim—”

“Why did you do it, Ed?” he intervened hastily, cutting Ed’s thoughts with a silver tongue. “What happened to you?”

_ “Nothing _ happened to me,” Ed hissed, voice low. A warning — _ exasperation. _ He might _ just _ break his teeth. Humans never heed the rattling of a tail.

“I know you, Ed,” he persisted with that stony grade of certainty _ (**t**_**_hat damned tenacity will get him killed_**_). _ “This isn’t you. How did you become… _ this?” _

“This is who I am,” Ed snapped, scratching at the table — a shrill, awful sound. “You don’t know me. I did it for Oswald. He’s my friend.”

“You didn’t have to do it,” Jim breathed, so _ calm, _ so frustratingly _ composed _ and collected Ed wanted to tear out his throat. “I could have helped you, Ed. I was your friend, too.”

“Were you? Or did you just pity me?” He gritted his teeth, clenched them, willed them to break (begged them, prayed, please please please — _ get me out of here). _ “Oswald saw me how no one else has. He _ helped _ me. He…” Hesitation there. Terrible, intrusive uncertainty. “He actually _ likes _ me. I know him better than I know any of you. The reverse is the same.” He leaned forward again, intently, heart beating a thick, slow rhythm in his chest like a warning drum. “And you can _ trust me _ on that.”

And no teeth need be broken for the guards to lead him back to his room — consultation over, memories and pictures torn from the peeling walls of Ed’s mind. Loathe the name _ Jim Gordon. _

You’re _ scared. _ That was a voice in his head, tucked away in the furthest corner like a bloody secret, bundled up and bound. Ed could feel its laughter bleed down his spine, soaking his skin, _ wearing him down. _

He scratched at the floor to _ shut it up. _

_ (He rarely dreamed anymore, a mental sort of loneliness he might have cared for had half of his mind not been rented out already. There were nightmares, as always, and guaranteed in Arkham, but hardly ever _ dreams, _ true beauties he could relish. Not like dreams of days gone by (sinful things of a boy he met once), or even still, like the ones most recently in his apartment. Visions and wishes of branding touches that left him shaking and breathless, whispers and curls of a damned silver tongue in his ear that often made him call out in his sleep. A formal title for a gangster in his bed. There was something almost like it one night. Ed woke up crying.) _

It was a fact well known to anyone in Arkham who would listen that Ed _ loathed _ the time of year. Christmas _ and _ New Year’s, nightmares fueled by alcohol more generally permitted for its facade of seasonal festivity. Hell in a handbasket, Ed often called it. Doorbells rung, carols sung, presents torn apart to yield disappointments disguised and excused as “age and gender appropriate toys” — and cheap ones, nevertheless. Their money was always gone, wasted on more ingestible presents for the mature population of that _ sunny _ suburban home.

Ed supposed it was a pitiful fact to be addressed that this past Christmas — spent in quite possibly the closest thing to Hell he would ever get (until that _ fateful _ day came) — had been one of his happiest yet. There were no infernal decorations forced upon the unwilling population, no blasted Christmas songs, no candies or cookies or spiced rums or cider (which Ed detested in and of itself). The only thing he had to endure was the customary Christmas play (which he often questioned the perpetuity of, for it seemed to always end in violence). That, however, he could stand. Seclude himself in the corner with the shell of a man he once knew, holding his hand as discreetly as he could and narrating the proceedings to cold, deaf ears. Jingle bells, life is swell. That’s Christmas to me.

They’d survived that together, thank God, and if Ed could have sunk into that agonizingly stiff mattress and rejoiced the end of such despicable holidays, he would have. But there was still one to come. Come and gone and ultimately passed with streamed countdowns and congregations of loonies. Another watered-down celebration that Ed could extend his gratitude for. A blessing in the chilly depths of Hell. Imagine.

But with the new year, there always came some kind of change. Resolutions or decorations, seasons, attitudes, outlooks, fashions. Abysmal, insufferable but horribly inevitable _ change. _ And even in such a sequestered state, that change had slithered its way into Ed’s life to bite him on the ass.

Change when Oswald started talking (meek, polite — apologies for the most trivial of inconveniences). Change when he would smile at the doctors. Change for how he reeked of sterility and stale creativity, wasted potential and emptiness (Ed wondered if he would be able to hear the wind whistle through him as it blew).

Change when Ed was called to the visitation room — merely the second occurrence of its kind.

Blood-chilling change when he found Oswald there, beaming and clutching a form to his sweater-clad chest.

Stomach-turning change when he gazed into those eyes, to find them real but pointless, a sort of emptiness that made Ed’s heart ache, a new level of darkness that made him want to weep with grief. It wasn’t that same glossed over, artificial look of torment long past, it was a grade of soullessness that only came with death.

World-ending change when Oswald said he was _ sane. _ Presented the certificate. Smiled like it was his life’s goal.

“They’re letting me out,” he said, cracked lips stretched to show yellowed teeth, pale skin pulled taut, glassy eyes pumped full of artificial glee. Ed could have thrown up if he had anything in his stomach.

“You’re leaving?”

Oswald nodded giddily. “It _ worked, _ Ed. The treatments _ worked. _ A-And…it could work for you, too,” he added, eyes softening and head cast to one side. “They can help you. And we can be together.”

“Could we?” Ed asked, voice hardly carrying through the spacious room. The words were the flint to light a flame, melting his heart. Agonizing hope garnished with a sort of deadly grievance. He wanted to cry.

Oswald stepped forward haltingly (at least his limp remained — an irremovable scar of character, a reminder of what he once was), passing his certificate to the table and reaching forward, brushing the sleeves of Ed’s uniform with an air of reverence Ed knew he would miss with a sickening gravity.

He looked up at Ed after a span of worrying silence, eyes glittering with a hint of tears, watery mourning over the grave of their dying present.

“I want to be with you, Ed. I want you with me.” He collected the worn, striped fabric of the suit in his hands, running his thumbs along the seams, smoothing out the creases over Ed’s narrow shoulders. “They can get you out,” he giggled with far too much assurance, meeting Ed’s dazed stare again. “You just have to let them.”

Let them break me, Ed added silently to himself. Let them tear me down, gut me and stuff me with their fluffy positivity. Sick perceptions of this godforsaken city and its people. You’re going to die.

Ed was crying.

“You’re my best friend, Oswald,” he said instead of agreement, brushing Oswald’s overgrown fringe out of his face. “I wish you the best life outside.”

Ed could see the spark snuffed from Oswald’s eyes, the color drained from his already ghostly face. Somehow, he’d found a way to kill him even more. The thought was oddly reassuring.

“No, Ed,” Oswald started shakily, begging as if he were being dragged away. “No, I want to stay with you! I do! Please, Ed, come with me.”

“I can’t,” Ed said with a hiccup and a stiff shake of his head. “I’m sorry. They won’t let me.”

“You just have to do what they say! Do what they ask — follow the rules! Ed,” he choked, tears spilling down those porcelain cheeks, “please.”

There was a time, Ed knew, when he would have written off his soul to this man. Laid down his life for him without a second thought. Torn apart his chest and ripped out his ribs to hand him his heart with his own bloody hands. That was a sickness, Ed knew that too, but it was a sickness he was willing to bear. A well-known sickness, for all its viral communicability. More potent than the plague. More common than the cold.

“I can’t,” he said once more, cupping Oswald’s face in his filthy hands — to leave a mark of himself on that immaculate skin, he reasoned. Stain that precious experiment. “But I’m happy for you,” he whispered, and wished he could mean it.

Those tears were staining his hands — perfect saline from manufactured eyes — and when Oswald said his name again Ed lost all sense to the sobbing, cavernous pit in his heart and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

For the times I could have done more, he thought. Hardly a true gesture, but strong and sure enough to be _ there. _ To burn their skin and brand his mind with a red-hot iron.

Barely two seconds of contact, but when they were forced apart by the guards (for you damn happiness, don’t you?) there was still a frightfully genuine expression of heartbreak and awe on Oswald’s face that seemed more permanent than the kiss itself. Ed could still see it when he closed his eyes against the tears, watching him walk away into his inevitable death.

Love, Ed felt he had to designate it, an admittance of eternal torment to himself, a promise of a most agonizing death to come. Gripping the bars of his cell window and shaking against the voice in his corner, he added his screams to the cacophony of that Hell. I’m damned at last, just let me fit in. A Christmas miracle, just for once.

It isn’t even what I want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Ed sang for Oswald is "Happy Xmas (War is Over)" for those who don't know!


End file.
